#they should take a pick with a piece of paper signed that they are divorced at a court house

[professorsta]

Shane and Ryan should just keep on divorcing then getting back together like they are competing to be the next On and Off again celebrity relationship

[yeyinde]

when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 

This is, and always has been, about yearning. 

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either. 

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 

The rest, though? Spare parts. 

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 

It's why he isn't married. 

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 

But the real reason is because he knows better. 

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you? 

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 

He let it. Encouraged it. 

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you? 

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?” 

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 

The little seed that started germinating blooms. 

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 

You smell it, and shiver. 

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 

And so, of course he does. 

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him. 

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 

Seven pills in a row. 

He files it away, lost in thought. 

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 

That, too, he files away. 

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 

That's all for him. 

(Nasty old bastard.) 

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 

And that simply won't do. 

So, he plots. Plans. 

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.” 

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 

“Could stop taking it.” 

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang. 

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 

He decides on a different route to the same end. 

Damnation at your own hand. 

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 

The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 

John notes it down. Tucks it away. 

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 

It's a tease. A test. 

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 

This will be your cacoëthes. 

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb. 

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 

He can't wait to ruin it. 

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 

He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 

Like this, though—you melt. 

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does. 

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 

He just needs to wait things out. 

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 

His bones ache for it. 

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet. 

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him. 

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 

—a pregnancy test. 

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 

A pregnancy test. 

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?” 

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 

Lucky him, indeed. 

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 

Oh, fuck—

You better not be. 

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 

This is happening, then. 

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place. 

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 

Until it becomes too much. 

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.” 

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill. 

[bullet-prooflove]

We had the thing that everyone wanted - Sam Abrams 😏

The Fight Before Christmas - You and Sam get into a fight after he discovers you've been keeping a secret from him.

Should Have - Companion piece to The Fight Before Christmas - There's a lot of things Sam should have done.

Fraught - Companion piece to The Fight Before Christmas and Should Have - Sam makes a decision regarding your relationship.

The thing about your marriage is up until now it was rock solid. Your friends they’ve always told you, ‘I want what you and Sam have’ because Sam, he had always adored you and you, you had always loved him.

He just needs time, you tell yourself when you find his wedding ring on the kitchen table, he needs space but then the divorce papers arrive and suddenly you realise just how serious he is about leaving you.

And that’s what drives you to break the stalemate, because the past couple months  have been a no man’s land between the two of you. Sam shutting you out and you not pushing because you’re scared of this exact thing happening.

Well now it’s happening and it’s time for you to pull up your big girl pants and face it only Sam won’t take your calls, he doesn’t respond to your texts. So you turn up at his office.

If there’s one thing Sam doesn’t like it’s surprises so the sight of you before his desk disarms him completely.

“I don’t have time.” He tells you because the truth is he doesn’t want to deal with this, he’s not emotionally equipped to deal with this.

“Make time.” You tell him, setting the envelop down on the desk in front of him.

He doesn’t know what to say to that because you have never spoken to him but this way but then again he has never put you in this situation before.

“Do you hate me?” You ask him, shoving the divorce papers towards him. “For what I did, for keeping that secret?”

Sam sighs because this is what he’s been trying to avoid, this messiness, the emotions that come with something like this. He’s tired of feeling, he wants to go back to that numbness, to the way he was before he married you.

“No.” He tells you, his gaze focusing on his pen instead of you. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then why…”

“Because being with you has made me soft, weak.” He says as he sags back in his chair. “Before when something bad happened, it didn’t touch me but now I feel everything, the good and the awful and I don’t want that, I don’t want…”

He exhales because his heart, it hurts, it’s been hurting ever since he found out about Lucy. It feels like he’s bleeding out, like his soul is just pouring out of his chest like a river and this is the only way to stop it.

“Sam, you can’t just shut yourself off.” You say softly. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“For me it does.” He says and he sees your jaw clench because you know when you look at him, that this right here, this is the end. “Please don’t fight me on this, I don’t want to take this through the courts but I will if you force me to.”

You feel like he’s punched you, like he’s plunged a knife right into your chest. He reaches for the envelope, removing the paperwork before he turns it towards you and sets the pen down on top.

“This is really what you want?” You ask him, your voice breaking as you pick up the pen and meet his eyes.

“Yes.” He tells you, his finger sliding down to the place where your signature is required. “You need to sign here.”

Love Sam? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

@kmc1989 @secretsquirrelinc @caffeinatedwoman @maryelizabeth13

[cakepoppresent]

Making a List and Checking It Twice 2

Gideon is going down his list and making sure everyone is getting what they deserve. Second on his list, his weak ass father

Gideon: I'm going to keep this brief. Mom is tired and she wants a divorce. I'm here on her behalf and to let you know

Emerson: Gideon, are you insane? You're my son how can you allow this?

Gideon: I didn't allow anything. Your lack of care and love towards Mom was what caused this

Emerson: Gideon! First, you sold the company and now you're ruining my marriage? How did I raise an ungrateful son like you!

Gideon: Once again I didn't ruin anything. Be grateful Mom isn't asking for anything she just wants you to sign the papers. That should be easy enough for you

Emerson: I cannot believe you turned out like this...where did I go wrong?

Gideon: Please get over yourself and let Mom go. I'll take care of he

Emerson: Where is she?! I want to talk to her!

Gideon: No. You've done her enough harm for a lifetime

Gideon not wanting to spend another minute with his father gets up and leaves Emerson with one last statement "I'll have my lawyers send over the papers. Please sign them promptly. I would hate to have to use force"

Emerson: Gideon you really don't care about us?

Gideon: No.

Sitting quietly on the couch Gideon heard the door open and watches Su walk calmly into his room "I heard you're off to Sulani?" Su jumps in fright at the sudden sound of a stranger in his room "Gideon wtf. You're a sick freak you know that"

Gideon: Am I? Apologies for the scare

Su: I'm leaving with Grayson. Shouldn't be an issue since you're broken up now

Gideon doesn't respond as expected instead, he gives off a small laugh "You're funny. How much do you know about Grayson?

Su: Enough to know he left you. Now I can take care of him

Gideon: Oh? Is that right?

Gideon makes himself comfortable on Su's couch and laughs again "You can isolate Grayson for the summer all you want. Doesn't change that fact you mean absolutely nothing to Grayson" Su bristles in anger and moves to stand above Gideon "Sounding jealous"

Gideon: To be jealous means I would have to be worried and I'm not. What's the plan? Do you think our friends are going to accept you? What about his family? Who wants their child to date someone who is emotionally manipulative?

Su remains silent and stares at the floor in thought "I'm a very charming person I can win over anyone. I won over Grayson didn't I?" Su cocks an eyebrow in arrogance

Gideon: Did you? Seems you've taken your delusion seriously

Su: Seems you're just talking shit

Gideon: Grayson has never been told no. He grew up with everything and anything. Completely spoiled so the first time he's faced with adversity he crumbled. You just happened to be there. You mean nothing. Whatever bullshit you're spewing in his ear will clear up and he'll see you're a lying piece of shit and I'll be there to pick him up."

With that, Gideon gets himself together and leaves Su's home

It's hard to ignore the thought that Grayson doesn't think of Su as a romantic partner. What if Gideon is right and Grayson is just using him as a way to not think about his hardships. Grayson isn't like that...right? They definitely have something together. Spending time Sulani will prove it

Start - Next

[submissiveredrocketgogo]

The Unbridged Truth Part 1

We used to be close, but people can go From people you know to people you don't And what hurts the most is people can go From people you know to people you don't (Selena Gomez)

It's always been need to know. The truth is it dates back before the divorce. Carla always had the noose around someone's neck. I Found a picture one day when i was being a snoop. Nick had this metal box and i was curious. In the box was a picture. the divorce papers and deep inside i knew carla still had hands around nick. There was no going to her so i called my grandmother and she told me the entire truth. That the picture i held was of barbara and in her arms was patricia my sister. There's a story that when christmas came around like all children they are asked what they wanted. Each time i wanted a sister and the entire time she knew patricia was alive. I don't think my blood history was need to know as was told to me. I think they didn't trust her with the truth. I'm the exception because there blood runs threw my veins. It's hard on me because i don't know who carla is anymore. People can defend her and say she was trying to only protect me. There's a good chance she was but the reality is trying to protect me, lying to me only hurt me. The divorce papers were signed in agreement but most of it was aimed at nick. He wasn't there for her it writing claimed, he didn't love her enough. There is not many who know that i have seen the actually court documents. Nick was just a victim. In the end he saved my life threw love and thats how i know that those documents were bullshit. She was not a hero but a greedy bitch wanting out of a promise and hop on another dick. My stepfather was two faced with his fist and she was two faced with her words.

The family didn't speak so my disorder's went unchecked. Who carla molded me to be was never who i was and nick followed because he honestly loved her. There's this puzzle that is in the shape of a block. It had these holes that were triangle,square,circle,hexagon and pieces that fit those holes. That box was my life and i was a circle and they tried to put me into the hexagon. These past two months iv met people who only confirmed the reality, and the past three years lifted my head. So sitting across from her from the table at the cheescake i had to remind myself nick still loves her, the money she hands we need. I'll never trust her and i just wanted to teach her a lesson. Teach her what it's like to mess with someone's heart like a puppet straight into the table. How's the blood taste, how's the betray feel, how does it feel to be fucking useless. Give her a taste of when she abandoned me each day, chose him over me her daughter and what she did to my father. It hurts to say i love her, because she's a fucking monster but i can't help it. I Can say like my stepfather i hate her. My calls at the hospital were not sincere, they were me just going threw the motions. It never was her i called first but last. I see my place in this world, see i have a place in it.

My own monster was a product of there fucked actions. My actions were my own and i take responsibility for them. If i hurt you i'm forever sorry. It was there betrayl, there ideals,the self righteous ignorance that in turn created the monster in me. It was watching kids getting picked up at school by family knowing inside my own was dead. It was thanksgiving at grandma's and he sat once were my father sat. It was the abandonment and need for affection that burned into me. I Lied to people just so they would stay, lied to them to be the center of attention. Manipulating the situations in my own favor. After jessica i did my best to cure myself from this curse. The chains that bound me are gone and i'm just screaming, it feels like i took 3 to the chest. They wanted me to stop, they feared me and for good reason. I'm not going to stop till everyone's accounted. They should have thought about this when they opened there mouth, before they chose violence. I can remember what you can't, i can remember the word's, the incidents. My weapon is truth, i'll bring the truth out and let people make there own opinions. So now that iv told the truth about carla what's next? I Don't know honestly. I Do know that i hope my darrell is proud of me. I'm his only offspring. The blood that runs threw these veins was a gift. That jessica where ever she is has a smile on her face and nick i hope i live up to being your daughter. I'll be write more takeing out more slugs, the more i release the more weight is off my shoulders. I'm not honestly happy about this but in the end it's survival. I'm tired of being the victim.

[myobmaya]

Heart In Hawkins

Verse 2 | Eddie Munson

Introduction | part one

premise: After your husband Eddie Munson arrives on your front door steps, five years after he left Hawkins. You find him waiting for you at The Hide Out after he drains your account and a few familiar faces pop in.

TW: mention of divorce/marriage, alcohol and cigarette use, abandonment, cursing, arrest

The smell of cigarettes and booze is strong in the air. Def Leppard plays in the background and the bar is starting to fill with more and more people as time goes on. Young couples sway in the middle of the dance floor while friends gather at the tables close off to the side. The place is alive and filled with the same spirit of being together.

Eddie Munson is alone nursing a beer.

He sits inside of the bar that he once used to play at in his younger years. It feels like time froze here. The tables are the same, young couples still come here for a night out and the owner sits in the back thinking of new ways to draw cash in.The only difference is the bartender working her way through college and the bathrooms are upgraded. Yet, it’s still the same place Eddie once called his favorite spot. The place that gave him a chance.

The Hideout.

His phone rings on the bar counter. The same number that has been calling him since he landed yesterday doesn’t let up. Annoyance sets in stone as he debates if he should pick up.

He takes a sip from his bottle and the phone stops ringing. Eddie tells himself he’ll return her call when he’s had more to drink.

It’s been a full day since he’s returned to Hawkins and the papers he brought have yet to be signed. He figured you would have tracked him down by now, surely you must have figured out that he wiped the bank account leaving you with nothing.

Of course he has plans to return it once the papers are signed. He’s not a complete monster.

He’s been waiting for you to find him. Give him a piece of your mind. Sign the papers and tell him to shove it down his throat. But he’s only heard radio silence from you. It should worry him that you haven’t reached out to him.

Why haven’t you reached out?

He thinks back to seeing Steve at the house. Maybe you had opened up an account with him and kept your new finances that he supplies you in there. He tells himself he doesn’t care that you’ve probably done that. He doesn’t give a shit that you’re with Steve now. It stings that you share a child with him, but he doesn’t care. He reassures himself that he’s upset that you didn’t bother to divorce him before starting a new life.

The audacity for you to get upset that he came back with divorce papers. At least he had the courtesy to start the process before he marries—-

A ring blares down on the counter stealing him from his thoughts.

Eddie sighs and debates watching it ring again. The bartender glances over and sees his empty bottle. She doesn’t say anything, but the annoyed look on his face tells her everything she needs to know as he debates answering the call. She pulls a fresh bottle and walks over to him. A fresh beer bottle is placed in front of him and he glances up to catch her giving him a wink before walking away. Her smile is sweet, genuine and kind as she tells him to cheer up. Different from the hungry looks he’s used too. He can’t remember when’s the last time someone smiled at him because they wanted to, not because they wanted something from him.

He leaves the beer on the counter. Maybe it was time he showed kindness to the person that’s been calling him. Eddie finds patience in himself to answer the call.

“What’s up?” Eddie answers. A relieved sigh is heard from the other line before anger is thrown at him.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Why haven’t you called?” Her voice is scratchy in his ear. He can practically see her running her smooth hands through her perfect hair. Not a strand out of place unlike his unruly head. The shiny ring on her finger has probably been polished again ready for her to show off to her father and friends. The thought alone makes him want to order a bottle of tequila and drown in it.

He tells himself he’ll try the kindness act again tomorrow.

Eddie grumbles wiping a hand down his face. He definitely should have had another bottle before picking up the call. He hears her annoyance strong in her voice as she goes on to list the reasons why he should have called the moment he landed.

He thinks about hanging up the phone. The buzz of his third beer is starting to set in and he has to be up early tomorrow to find you. If you weren’t going to seek him out, he’ll just track you down and make you aware of his actions.

“Are you even listening, Eddie?” Her high pitch tone shrieks in his ear.

No. I haven’t listened to a word since the moment we met. Why would I now? He wants to say.

He leans back in the bar stool and looks around. The stage he used to perform on mocks him as it stands empty ready for its next band to perform. A wave of nostalgia hits him as he envisions his younger self strumming his guitar, dreaming of the day he plays a bigger crowd.

Eddie’s taken back to his teenage years. The drive of his younger self chasing a dream that he now lives as a reality almost thanks him as he looks down and sees the shiny new rings on his fingers. The same ones that would have taken five years worth of savings, now only a few performances. He’s about to hit it big with the band. He can’t afford to lose out now.

So he bites his tongue and tells himself that there’s more on the line. He clears his throat and adjusts the phone on his shoulder.

“Yeah, babe. I’m listening. Sorry, just tired from the flight.”

A blanket of anger wraps around you as fury builds with every step you take. You’re sure that if looks could kill, every person watching you make your way through the parking lot would be dead on the floor. But that’s the last thing on your mind. There’s only one person that you would like nothing more than to see six feet under.

The audacity of Eddie Munson coming back into your life. He’s only been in town for 24 hours and he’s already become the biggest pain in your ass. Again.

It’s nearing 5 p.m and the parking lot is getting full at The Hideout. You don’t even know if he’s here, but if there’s still some of the old Eddie that you knew still left, you know he’ll be sitting at the third seat at the bar counter. You knew there was a slim chance he would be at his uncle’s house. Something just told you you’d find him here and you were going to go with your gut.

You’re too wrapped up in what curse words you’ll be spewing at Eddie to notice the warm greeting from Joyce Beyers. She sits on the hood of her car waiting for two familiar faces to show up. When you walk by ignoring her friendly wave and the angry look in your eye she immediately grows with concern. Joyce goes to stop you but stops when your hand meets the entrance of the building.

The door is jerked open with great force and you step in. The place is filled with a few parties. The music is loud but you can faintly make out conversations. It takes you a few moments but your eyes instantly narrow on the curly brown hair you used to love playing with.

He sits alone at the bar, third seat down from the end. Figures.

Eddie doesn’t see you as he faces the bar, his back to the door. He’s got a phone pressed between his shoulder and chin. You take him in for a moment, just watching how relaxed he looks. He has a beer in front of him and takes a swing gulping down the liquor before returning back to his conversation. So carefree enjoying a beer you know you paid for. The sight pisses you off and your anger bubbles over.

Your eyes narrow as you’re walking towards him not caring that you look like a bat out of hell. The words fall out of your mouth before you realize you’re yelling at your husband from across the bar. People lose interest in their conversations, quickly finding entertainment in your business.

“You sorry son of a bitch!”

Eddie freezes hearing your voice. All of the patrons watch as you reach him wondering what has caused your outburst. You slam your hand on the counter top forgetting you’re in public. He looks at you and takes in your distaste at the sight of him. He slowly grins. It’s about time he thinks to himself.

“I’ll call you right back,” Eddie ends his conversation and hangs up the phone placing it on the counter. A hand is on your hip while your other arm stabilizes your weight by resting on the counter. You fight the urge to wipe that grin right off his face.

He’s smug. Taking your anger as a victory as if he just won a battle.

“Fancy seeing you here, Sweets,” Eddie happily greets you. His remark sounds sincere, but the tone in his voice is anything less. Yet, he’s relieved you found him here without any form of communication. Even after years of no contact, it amuses him how you found him here.

You shake your head at him not believing that he’s taking this as a joke. The dig comes quicker before you can realize what you’re saying to him.

“Yeah, I looked up where the washed up rock stars like to hang out at and figured I’d give this place a start.”

Eddie only laughs. He knows that’s not true. He knows you know that’s not true either. He’s far from being washed up in his career, if anything, he’s about to hit his peak. The tabloids in the paper and new record deal he just signed says the opposite of your statement but you’re mad. Rightfully so, so he just turns his body towards you. Your knees brush against each other and you’re quick to look down. Eddie doesn’t say anything. You flick your eyes back up to his. He’s amused by your anger.

“Ouch, washed out rock star?” Eddie picks up his bottle and presses it to his lip. He nods his head to the side. “That’s a new one, sweets.” You watch as his lips wrap around it before he tilts his head back giving you a clear view of his neck.

He’s filled out more since the last time you saw him. He’s grown into his body and he looks annoyingly good. The neck you used to leave marks all over from your mouth now mocks you as your hands itch to strangle it.

Eddie watches you as you visibly swallow. You look up at him and he throws you a wink. You scowl at him.

“Shall we continue our conversation from yesterday?” Eddie asks, setting the bottle down on the counter.

You ignore his question getting straight to the point. It was embarrassing enough finding out your funds had been wiped when you tried to pay for your delivery at the shop. You weren’t going to give him anymore of your humiliation by talking about the divorce in a bar of all places. “Give me back my money, Munson.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to drop his smile and glare at you. It wasn’t just your money in the account. The monthly checks he’s been sending should have been deposited into that account. Sure, he left. But that doesn’t mean he left you high and dry. He made sure to send you a good portion of his earrings to make sure you’d still be taken care of.

“Sign the papers and you can have every cent back,” He challenges. You shake your head in disbelief. The ache in your chest is only fueled by your anger but you refuse to let him see the hurt.

“Give me my money and you’ll walk out with all limbs.”

Eddie’s smile doesn’t falter. He only laughs knowing that comeback didn’t have to take much from you. You were always quick with your remarks. But, he was quicker.

Eddie raises his left hand with a menacing smile on his face. “What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine, remember?”

A frustrated chuckle escapes as you smack his hand down. It feels like a cruel dream. The man disappears for years, comes back with divorce papers and now sits in front of you mocking your wedding vows. “Just like how you were supposed to stay for better or for worse, remember baby?” You spit the term of endearment out as an insult. The hard look on Eddie’s face tells you that he knows the double meaning behind the vow.

Eddie sits up straighter shaking his head at you. He stands up and you stay planted in your spot. His chest is up against yours as the both of you stand off against each other. He no longer finds this amusing. He’s getting just as frustrated as you are now. The hate in your eyes stands clear. He wishes he could mirror yours.

You still blame him for that night.

“No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to blame me for—-.”

Eddie is cut off when you point a finger in his face. “No, you don’t get to take my money and—“

He throws his hands up in the air. Of course you’re avoiding the subject when he brings up that night. Some things haven’t changed. You not being able to talk to him being one of them.

“No, you don’t get to blame me for leaving when you’re the one who—“

An audience has been created by the other patrons in the bar. They watch as you and Eddie go back and forth not caring about the scene that’s being created.

You throw in an insult and Eddie points his finger in your face. You shove it away and he only turns his hand to hold onto your wrist. He’s gentle but firm as he stops you from getting in his face.

You stomp your foot. “Stop touching me!”

“Stop pointing your stupid finger in my face!” He dramatically throws his hands up.

“I wouldn’t have to point my finger in your stupid face if you would listen! But I guess that mop on your head is still clouding your hearing!”

Eddie gasps as if you just disrespected his mother. “Don’t you dare insult my hair!”

The both of you look like children arguing over who ate the last cookie in the jar. You both are too busy throwing insults at each other to notice the front door opening. Two dirt covered boots step into the bar and a pair of brown eyes zero in on you and Eddie. Joyce right behind them.

The man stops in his tracks. He was never one for rumors, but he did hear the whispers in the grocery store and didn’t think they were true. Surely, he expected to hear the source straight from you by now. But, as he watches Eddie throw his hands up in the air as you roll your eyes at him his suspicions are confirmed.

The cheshire grin spreads like butter. He makes his way over taking slow, dramatic steps. The way he gets so much joy out of giving the metal head takes him back to his younger days. Joyce looks to where he’s heading and stops with her jaw wide open. Seeing Eddie back in town is more than shocking to the woman. Eddie and you are inches away from each other’s faces when Joyce’s date chooses to interrupt the fight.

“Well if it isn’t the jail birds back in action after all these years.”

You stop mid sentence. Eddie freezes. That voice… it couldn’t be…

The cool collected rock star has vanished and for a moment Eddie feels like he’s 26 years old again. He’s taken back to the days of him dodging the older man from his illegal activities.

Footsteps get closer to Eddie and before he knows it someone’s throat is being cleared. Eddie smells the tobacco radiating off of them confirming his worst nightmare. The cigarette and cheap cologne always meshed together to create a distinct scent. A scent practically embedded in Eddie’s memory from the times he’s had to seek it out. Eddie could always smell him first before he appeared. There was a reason Eddie wanted to be in and out of Hawkins. The person behind him being a strong contender of his list. He closes his eyes and mumbles out a quiet fuck knowing he’s been caught.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You only can grin seeing Eddie quickly shrink into himself. Even after all of these years, the older man had a way of making Eddie feel so small. Eddie slowly opens his eyes and sees the mischievous glint in your eyes. His blood runs cold knowing what you were thinking.

Don’t you dare Eddie mouths at you. You only raise a brow at him challenging him.

“Hey, Hopper.” Eddie’s nostrils flare as you smile at him.

A hand slaps on his shoulder and he’s spun around to face the sheriff. Eddie hears you chuckle from behind him. He tries to mask his fear but it’s quickly wiped away the moment Hopper gives him the same smile he used to right before he took him down to the office.

“Well,if it isn’t Mischievous Munson back in the flesh,” Hopper pats Eddie’s shoulder one last time before ruffling his hair. Eddie takes a step back immediately trying to fix the damage Hopper has done. Hopper grins seeing Eddie’s annoyance. You can’t help but laugh harder seeing the two back together after so many years. It always humored you the way Hopper could humble Eddie so quickly.

“I see you’re still causing trouble, Munson,” Hopper smirks looking between the both of you. Eddie hopes you don’t see the way he’s trying to stay collected. You do and decide to let Hopper humor you while you take a break from chewing Eddie out. You shrug your shoulders taking Eddie’s seat.

Eddie looks Hopper up and down, giving him a fake smile. The old dig he used to tell Hopper to piss him off comes back to memory and he’s saying it out loud before giving it another thought. “I see you’re still keeping the town bakery in business.”

Hopper’s lips drop and his eyes instantly narrow. It’s Eddie’s turn to win this round. It’s like watching both men from years ago. Hopper tries to stop Eddie from his activists, Eddie finding a way out of it. It’s bittersweet remembering those days.

How times have changed.

Hopper gives Eddie one last look before turning to find Joyce. Out of instinct Eddie turns to see your reaction. The two of you always finding yourselves in trouble but somehow lucking out and not having anything on your records.

You fight the urge to give Eddie the approving smile. He was just insulting you a moment ago. But when he flashes that big grin at you, you break and feel your smile struggling to appear. But you hide it by looking away. You catch a glimpse of his beer. The bottle is still full so you swipe it, his eyes remain on you the whole time.

You make a show of wiping off any potential residue from it. “You body shame Hopper, you lose your drink.” You cheer it up at him before taking a huge swing on it. Eddie catches the act and rolls his eyes at you.

“Classy,” Eddie mumbles out. He goes to sit down in the seat next to yours. You kick the chair out just as he goes to sit. He stumbles but catches himself. You smile sweetly at him. He flips you off.

“Classy,” you mock him. Eddie takes a seat and goes to grab the beer from you but you only dodge it up in the air.

“Seriously? I just paid for that.”

You shake your head at him taking another sip. “With my money, shithead.”

Eddie is about to say another word when the sound of a warm voice cuts him off. You both turn your attention to the front door where you see the neighborhood mother walking in with her adopted daughter.

Joyce Byers and El Hopper.

Eddie’s jaw drops seeing the once annoying child grown up now. Joyce has aged gracefully, a few lines running on her face, ever still so beautiful. El is in a matching uniform as her father, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Eddie can’t help but grumble.

“Is that El?” Eddie questions. He knew it was. The bright smile she always wore stays put on her face as she walks up to her dad with Joyce beside her. You nod your head proudly.

“And she’s a cop?” Eddie‘s baffled. He thought once Jim retired that’s be the last of the Hopper family this town would have. Lord knows he’s had enough interactions with him to last a lifetime.

He stands very wrong.

The brunette girl stands proud in her uniform. The one she just received a few weeks ago, following in her dad’s footsteps. It was a sweet ceremony you got to attend, proud of her for growing into a beautiful young lady. The days of babysitting her are long gone and seeing her so grown up has a warm feeling spread across your chest.

“Thought this town had enough of Hopper,” Eddie mumbles. You watch as your husband raises his hand gaining the attention of the bartender. She passes by and asks Eddie if he wants another beer to which he quickly agrees.

“I’d offer to get you one, but you know,” his smug attitude pisses you off and you remember why you’re here. What a cocky bastard you think running your tongue across your teeth.

“What? Nothing to say?” He laughs. He’s having too much fun with this. Nearly forgetting the reason why he’s here.

You clear your throat glaring at Eddie. El’s laugh catches your attention. She’s excitedly telling Joyce about her day while Hopper stands proudly. You watch as Hopper takes out a box of Marlboros from his pocket. He rests it in between his lips knowing better than to light it in front of his daughter. You’re sure El has had her moments of smoking. In fact, you know she has. A memory jogs in your brain. A secret you and Eddie kept to each other that would have definitely ended up on his record. One you’re about to break to get the last word.

Eddie Munson may think he won the battle, but you’re about to win the war.

No hesitation holds you back as your glare turns up. Eddie is watching you. He sees the mischievous glint in your eyes. He knows that look. It’s the same look you give right before you go for a kill. He goes to ask you what’s going through your mind but you gain Hopper’s attention first.

“Hey, Hop,” you smile sweetly up at the older man. Hopper stops his conversation with Joyce and looks your way. El sees Eddie. The same shocked expression is quickly becoming a regular reaction to him. How could it not be after he’s been gone?

You turn your attention back to Eddie, waiting to see the look on his face. The suspicious look on his face is enough to make you laugh in his face. You hold it in wanting your sentence clear for all to hear. “Didn’t you have a warrant out for that drug dealer that sold marijuana to El when she was in high school?”

Eddie’s face falls. Joyce gasps. El’s eyes grow wide. You turn your attention back on Hopper, pleased with yourself. His lips are pressed together and his eyes are slant. All sources of amusement drops from Jim’s face. You watch as he slowly looks at your husband. Eddie’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down as his eyes widen meeting the sheriff's displeased face.

Hopper slowly nods his head in agreement reaching for his metal bracelet. The sheriff has been waiting years to put the cuffs on Eddie. Eddie’s eyes are wide. It’s hilarious how one person can humble someone in a matter of moments.

You stand up from the bar sipping the last of the beer. Eddie’s mouth hangs open and you can’t help but to raise a gentle hand and shut it for him. He gulps and looks at you, disbelief that you just said that written all over his face.

“What? Nothing to say?” You use his words against him.

You shrug a shoulder at Eddie turning on your heel. You’ll get your money back, one way or another.

Eddie watches as you head towards the door and looks at Hopper who takes a step towards him. Eddie backs up and raises his heads trying to think of something quick to say. He thinks he’s done for. Hopper is finally getting him after all these years.

But when you turn your head over your shoulder and wink at him his memory serves him justice. You blow him a kiss before turning around. Your hand is on the door ready to walk out when his voice stops you.

“I may have sold it, but I wasn’t the one growing it,” Eddie states the fact to Hopper but keeps his eyes on you the whole time.

You spin around, disbelief in your eyes. Hopper looks straight at you in total shock. The plants you used to grow in your past are coming to haunt you in the present.

Hopper crosses his arms and El looks down. Joyce tries to change the subject asking if anyone wants to hear about her son’s new discovery at university. It goes on deaf ears.

“So you’re growing more than roses in that shop of yours, huh?” Hoppers arms are crossed and you don’t know weither to run out the door or go across the room to smack that stupid smirk off Eddie’s face.

Eddie catches the last of Hopper’s sentence and curiosity gets the best of him. You own a shop?

You immediately try to put the blame back on Eddie, anything to get Hopper’s attention on him. Your amateur days of growing marijuana were over. Eddie’s quick to start to defend himself. The two of you are creating more noise than the music blaring in the background. After a minute Hopper only holds his hand up tired of hearing you and Eddie bicker.

Hopper turns his attention to El who has settled beside Joyce away from the action. She knows Hopper isn’t done with her and will get to her after he’s proven a point. But for now, he was ready to show El how to do her first arrest.

“Hey El,” Hopper takes a step towards Eddie deciding he’ll personally deal with him. Hopper knows you won’t give El a hard time so he makes a quick decision. “Time for you to break in those new cuffs.”

Your jaw drops and Eddie’s laughter fills the bar. He’s bent over with his obnoxious laugh as Hooper walks up to him, cuffs in hand. Hopper glances over to see El making her way to you taking her handcuffs from her hip. Eddie doesn’t give Hopper a struggle as he turns around with his hands already behind his back. If he was getting arrested, he’d happily do so with you right by his side. Nothing like kicking you from your high horse Eddie thinks.

El gives you a guilty smile turning you around. Metal cuffs meet your wrist the same time Hopper gives Eddie a matching pair. Everyone watches the scene unfold. Tomorrow’s gossip is already making its way out into the town.

“Hey Sweets!” Eddie calls from behind you. You glance over your shoulder as El begins to walk you to the door.

“Don’t look too upset. If I recall correctly, you do like the cuffs.” Eddie’s innuendo to the handcuffs makes your jaw drop. El’s cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Laughter is heard from the bystanders. Hopper smacks the back of Eddie’s head. You

“You’re such an asshole,” you shoot daggers at Eddie. The two of you make it outside to Hopper’s SUV. Eddie rolls his eyes as he steps aside to let El open the back door.

“Yeah, I am. But, you know what?” Eddie’s question is rhetorical as he stares you down. Hopper goes to the driver’s side to unlock the vehicle leaving El to watch you both. Eddie steps up to you. “At least I can admit my fuck ups. When’s the last time you took a look in the mirror and accepted the past?” Eddie knows he’s cutting deep. The reference to that night always finding a way to open that endless wound. El, who stands beside you, pushes a gentle hand against Eddie’s chest. He looks you up and down. The distaste written out on his face.

The hurt you feel from that night is with you every day. Therapy sessions and talking it out have helped, but nothing can ever take away the pain. It makes you mad that Eddie is able to carry on like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t affected by it. Maybe that’s why he was able to leave this town behind and not look back. You always wished you could have had the strength he had. But looking at him you don’t see strength anymore. You see the coward that left. The coward that’s making a mockery of your emotions. Hurt is replaced by fury and you’re being fueled by it.

The ticking time bomb that is your anger sets off and you’re turning your body to kick Eddie’s groin. You miss and end up kicking him in the shin, sending him straight down. He lets out a pained groan as El’s jaw drops. Hopper hears Eddie’s cry and runs over from the other side of the vehicle.

You use the opportunity and go to give him another kick but Hopper hooks his arms under yours, pulling you away from Eddie.

“Hey, hey! Knock it off!” Hopper yells, swinging your body away from Eddie. El tries to cover her laugh with a cough but her dad hears her and sends her a glare.

Behind you, you hear Joyce calling your name. She runs over telling Jim to let go of you. He tells her to get back and drags you to the car. You’re still trying to get in another kick while Hopper opens the back seat. He takes your arms and throws you in as you continue to shout insults at Eddie.

Hopper slams the door shut and stomps over to where Eddie lays on the ground. El sees the displeased look on her father’s face and quickly wipes away the amusement. She meets her dad to where Eddie lays and helps his get him back on his feet. Hopper grabs a handful of Eddie’s shirt causing the rock star’s eyes to widen.

“I didn’t do anything! They started it—“

Hopper growls at Eddie baring his teeth as he pulls him inches away from his face. The sheriff is already annoyed by his presence.

“I don’t give a shit who started it. I’m ending it.” He opens the front seat keeping one hand on Eddie. You glare at both men from the back huffing out your anger.

Hopper shoves Eddie in and shuts the door without another word.

Joyce stands by El with a hand on her heart. El gives Hopper a sheepish smile. Hopper digs a hand into his jacket and pulls a cigarette out from it. The same one from earlier that he never got a chance to taste. He places it in between his lips as he leans against the car door catching a breath.. He hears you and Eddie start to argue again. He lays his hand flat against the glass and hits the window. Both of you shut up.

He thinks back to when he couldn’t get you two to stop laughing every time he got called to pick you up from whatever trouble you found yourselves in. Now, he can’t get you two to stop fighting for a drive down to the station. He finally lights the cigarette not caring who's around. A tired huff is let out as he wipes his arm across his forehead. The long awaited question the whole town has been asking finally comes out of Hopper’s mouth.

“What the hell happened to them?”

Part 3: Verse 3

A/N: thank you to leighanne for pulling me off the ledge.

tag list: @loveshotzz @littlesubbyflower @sidthedollface2 @ghost-frog2002 @maystecc @munsonzzgf @hauntingbastille @zvcdvm @aedicn @haylaansmi @erisdogwood @marisurmommy @tlclick73 @secretdryrose @k4g3hika @bibieddiesgf @sweetsweetjellybean @foreveranexpatsposts @brittanyyydamnit @emiluvmybf @ghostfroggi @tayhar811 @vulgarfuckinvirgo @lokiofasgard616 @madiisixx @omgvirtualcupcakecollection-blog @micheledawn1975 @alyisdead @prestinalove @mxciscastleintheair @harrys-tittie @mopeymopeymouse (I’m sorry if I missed you I tried getting everyone that asked to be tagged!! <3 ily guys)

[f10werfae]

Andy Barber is having an affair with his assistant while his wife reader is waiting for him at home then decided to divorce him

Andy Barber Drabble!! 🌧

Welcome To The Fae station: Full masterlist

Library Of Chris Evans: Chris Evans masterlist

“Why are you waiting up?” Andy asked coming in through the front door, coming home late from work once again, his hair disheveled along with his shirt and trousers.

“How was she Andy?” I asked bluntly swirling the glass of wine in my hand, needing to calm myself down after taking care of our daughter all day, she was only 4.

“How was who? What are you on about Y/n?” Andy said cautiously putting down his briefcase, his hands on his waist as he walked closer to me.

“Lucy, your assistant. I think you forgot to tell her not to send me your pictures and videos hun. Must say you put on quite the performance” I joked not even looking at him, my chest starting to tighten remembering the videos that bitch had sent to me, claiming my husband was now hers.

“Y-you were never meant to see that honey, I promise. It was a mistake, I was feeling lonely and-“

“LONELY? YOU WERE FEELING LONELY? You’re working Andrew, I’m here alone taking care of a child because no one else can. I stay up and cook you dinner, I do your laundry, I listen to you rant about your work, I love and wait on you. NOW YOURE SAYING YOUR LONELY? HELL WHAT THE FUCK AM I THEN?”

“Calm down Alecia is sleeping-“

“I don’t give a flying fuck Andy, I really don’t. You’re a piece of shit. Why would you do that to me? To alecia? To this family? I knew I should have trusted Laurie when she warned me about you”

“FINE YOU WANNA KNOW WHY? BECAUSE EVER SINCE WE HAD ALECIA YOUVE NOT TOUCHED ME ONCE! I HAVE NEEDS TOO Y/N, AND IM SORRY THAT IT TOOK MY ASSISTANT TO FULFIL THEM”

Nodding at his red flushed face, I turned around and picked up the brown envelope I had picked up this morning from my lawyer.

“Well hopefully she can fulfill the place of your wife and daughter, we’re over Andy. For your information, if all you needed was sex to break this marriage, you’re the pathetic one here. Not me. Sign these papers”

“Now hold on don’t you think you’re overreacting? I promise you it won’t happen again” He pleaded grabbing onto one of my hands, his face creasing with worry.

“How can I ever trust you again huh? BECAUSE NOW WHENEVER YOU GO OFF TO WORK, ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT IS YOU AND THAT FUCKING WOMAN ANDY”

Taking a deep breath with his hand brushing over his face, he then asked, “ What about Alecia”

“Well we can ask her what she wants to do, but I will fight for her any chance I get Andy. You may have broken this marriage, but you will not take my daughter away from me”

“You can’t do that-“

“I can. You weren’t supposed to cheat and now look what happened”

“So we’re over just like that? You don’t even wanna work it out?”

“You literally fucked another woman instead of talking to me, so yes, just like that”

[moonshine-nightlight]

Free Piano: Haunted - Part 1

When you drive by the piano on the way home from a job across town, you almost don’t stop. But your kid’s been wanting to learn how to play—a desire that’s stuck around for the last few months, a rarity—and this one’s free. It needs some TLC and while you’ve no experience with instruments, you’re good with your hands. On impulse, you pull over. Soon enough, you’re loading the free piano into the back of your truck. You barely give a passing thought to the “haunted” part of the sign.

Perhaps you should have.

Inspiration post: Haunted Free Piano Pic

Modern, enemies to friends to lovers, ghosts/spirits/specters, male monster x male reader, M/M, Part 1 of 8

Part One [Part Two]

You’re on your way home from a job across town when you see it.

You’re waiting at a busy all-way stop-sign intersection, counting your turn, when you see something big and wood on the side of the road. While people occasionally leave old or unwanted furniture out on the side of the road for either the garbage collectors, or anyone really, to take–it's not often.

The first time you ever actually stopped for one of these was with your grandpa, who was driving you home after baseball practice. He’d decided not to take the chair home that time—he said never take anything with upholstery because who knows what sort of bugs or vermin could be in it—but you two had stopped a few times after that. 

You’d helped him take home an old record player cabinet, once. He’d even let you stick around while he fixed it up–the first time you’d ever done any work like that in your life. Even though all he had you do was hold things for him for the most part, it had earned his trust in your abilities, leading to a few other projects he’d drafted you for. It was the only project you’d gotten to work on with your gran, she was the one who knew how to restore the record player to functioning.  

You still had it in fact, now that you had their house. Your parents hadn’t expected to inherit it, hadn’t really known what to do with it, but well, then came your divorce. It had made you feel like you belonged, that you weren’t just sneaking into their house–reminded you that you had contributed to the house with them. You’d still felt like a trespasser those first few weeks, there without Grandpa, but looking at the record player cabinet, and other spots you’d helped with at Grandpa’s side, helped ease that feeling.

You carried on with the habit, picking up an old TV stand for your college apartment with some buddies and a nightstand for your first apartment after that—easier to come by in the city you were living in at the time. 

You pull yourself from your memories when your turn comes and on impulse, you go right instead of going straight. You’re just curious enough to want to take a closer look and it’s not like you have anywhere to be. 

When you get close enough to pass by it, you’re surprised to see it's not furniture—it's a piano. Before you realize it, you’ve pulled into a driveway and turned around, coming up behind it on the correct side of the street. You don’t play, but your kid’s been wanting to learn. You’ve been considering getting an electronic keyboard, but they’ve never sounded right to your ear. Besides, while not as bad as a real one, any good instrument is expensive. 

This one is free.

Well, you think as you hop down from your pickup to take a closer look, it doesn’t look like it's in great shape.  The wood’s beat up and covered with what looks like water stains, discoloring and mildly warping the finish. But it's got a matching little bench, with a beat up, damaged design of what you think are supposed to be flowers or vines of some kind. 

And then there’s the sign.

 Ductaped together and to the piano itself is what looks like the side of a cardboard box with a piece of printer paper taped on top that in big, but neat print says “Priceless Antique”. Under that is another panel with very dark, large block letters merely saying “FREE”. Finally, under that is a third pane, looking even more hastily tacked on than the first two parts, stating “HAUNTED” in the same print as “FREE” but this word is underlined-twice. You appreciate the contradiction of “priceless” and “free”. The ‘haunted’ part causes you to raise an eyebrow: why would someone trying to get rid of something purposely label it haunted?

Restoration on this, even just the wood, will probably cost a fair amount—let alone any sort of specialist, mechanical restoration it’ll need.

But you’re a contractor by trade, which means you at least have access to more tools and supplies than most and you know the right people to ask for help—hell, isn’t there a youtube video for everything these days anyways? It's probably still cheaper than buying one.

You carefully flip up the lid to reveal the keys. They seem in better condition than the wood, only one or two looks damaged. You press a finger down on what you think is middle “C”. The note that rings out is clear and at the right volume, at least to your untrained ear. You don’t want to mess with it too much here on the street, but you hit two more keys at random, above and below, and they sound good enough—nothing obviously discordant or muted thuds from a hammer hitting wood instead of string.

You turn towards the house. No one’s come out to yell at you for messing with it, still… You shut the lid and reluctantly make your way over the house’s front door. It’s probably best to at least ring the bell and check with the current owners.

The bell rings louder than you expect and you’re already regretting deciding to voluntarily talk to strangers. You stand still, resisting the urge to fidget, until you start to think it's been long enough that you can just walk away when you hear footsteps from inside the house.

“Hi, sorry to bother you,” you say to the harried looking brunette a decade or so older than yourself who opens the door. “I just wanted to ask you about the piano?” You jerk your thumb over your shoulder in case she’s unaware of the free piano in her own yard. You’re glad when recognition blooms in her eyes before you can feel too silly for the gesture.

“Oh! Really? Great,” she says, sounding relieved. 

“It’s still available, yeah?” You didn’t want for someone to have already claimed it, but just not gotten around to moving it. No way did you want someone to accuse you of theft of their free item. Not again.

However, the woman just nods. “Yeah, definitely. You can take it. We’re moving to another state and there’s just not enough room. Besides, none of us can play it—my mother-in-law used to, but the arthritis means that's not a good idea anymore.”

“What sort of condition is it in?” You don’t know how much that’ll change your mind, but it can’t hurt to ask. A quick question with the owner can save time down the road—like if a drawer is locked and the key lost or where it was purchased from or what they’ve used on it before. Any extra info is helpful with these types of things.

She frowns a little and you can’t tell if it's because you’re bothering  to ask when it's literally free or because she’s trying to remember. “It got a bit damaged when the roof leaked a few years ago, but we made sure that the strings were alright—no rust or anything. I think it needs a tune and doesn’t look the prettiest, but,” she shrugs, “that’s why we’re just giving it away.”

“This the mover?” an older woman asks, her short white hair falling back from her face as she straightens from a bit of a stoop. She moves to stand in the doorway, the tennis balls on the four feet of her cane keeping her steady as she looks you over. 

“No, but they might be taking that piano off our hands,” the woman replies, a bit of a warning in her tone.

The grandmother’s eyes sharpen as she stares at you. “Are they now?” She looks past you and spies it on the side of the road. Her eyes go a bit hard when they narrow back on the woman. “Did you just drop it on the side of the road?”

“Mike was careful when he put it out,” she retorts defensively. “And no matter what you think, no one’s gonna pay money for it. Even this guy’s asking questions, despite it being free—no offense.”

You smile, glad you have practice with acting like everything is fine while family members get passive-aggressive. “None taken.” You wish you hadn’t bothered to knock.

“Do you play?” the older woman asks while her daughter-in-law squints passed you at the sign taped to the piano, as if just noticing how long it is.

You shake your head. “No, but my kid’s been wanting to learn.”

She gives you a measuring look before nodding slowly. “It’s a good one for a beginner, given they’re polite.”

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what that means when the daughter-in-law cuts off whatever you were going to say with a muttered curse. Turning, she yells back into the house, “Emma! What did I say about messing with the sign on the piano!?”

“What?” a faint but defensive voice comes from deeper in the house. “Gotta warn the people!”

You can’t help but smirk at the joke. That sign makes a lot more sense if they made the teenager write it.

The daughter-in-law turns to point a finger at the now smirking grandmother. “This is your fault for encouraging her.” She turns back to you with a brittle smile, “Look, take or don’t. I’ve gotta finish packing this whole house and if you don’t want it, garbage will collect it Monday.” With that said, she walks off into the house.

You turn to the grandmother and raise an eyebrow. She raises one back. “You’re the one who stopped. I’ve had that piano for many years, my brother played it too. It’s been around since my parents’ got it. If you think you can spruce it up and have your child play it, please do. If not,” she shrugs, “I’m sure someone else will take it. A piano like that won’t end up in the trash.” 

Before you can reply, there’s an indistinct shout from inside and she sighs. “I better go help. Be a dear and shut the door. Have a good day.”

“You too,” you reply as you obligingly close their door and head back to the piano.

You walk around it, and even take a look under it—mostly looking for anything like big holes or something—before you just sort of stare at it. Are you really doing this? What makes you think you can do fix it up? That it won’t still be too much money. That by the time you fix it, Kit won’t have moved on to some other interest. Even optimistically, you can’t finish this by his birthday—it’ll have to be for the winter holidays in a few months.

Will it fit in your shed? Will you be able to move it around without breaking it? 

You shake your head, scowling as you try to banish all your second guessing. It’s free, it's right here. If you take it home and figure out after some research it’s too expensive or impossible for someone not a professional, you can throw it out yourself. 

No harm in doing that much, right?

Decision made, you hop into your truck bed, moving things around until you’ve got enough space for it. It’ll be good for you to have a project again, you think. Now that the house is more or less fixed up, you’ve been finding the evenings on the days you didn’t have Kit too empty. You always feel better when you’ve got something to occupy your mind as well as your hands.

The space made, you frown as you try to get a feel for its weight. Just as you’re trying to decide the best way to move it yourself, a man comes jogging out of the house. “Hey!” he says as he raises a hand in greeting. “My mom says you’re gonna help take this off our hands—least I can do is chip in to get it into your truck.”

“Thanks,” you reply as you reassess how to do this with another person to help, “that’d be great.” What did the woman say her husband’s name was? Mike? Regardless, he’s taller than you and seems fit enough so with two people…

“You mind if we do the piano first? We can always squeeze the bench in wherever,” you say, glancing at the other man to see if he wants to take over the job of moving it or if he’s willing to go along with you. Frequently, when you go to work on a project, the man of the house wants to show he knows what he’s doing, that he’s only hiring someone like you because he doesn’t have the time to bother. Those types never seem to have a clue and are more trouble than they're worth.

Luckily, Mike just smiles broadly, “Sure, makes sense to me. I swear I’ve moved more furniture in the last month—even though we’re not taking much with us—than I have in my whole life before this.”

“I bet, moving’s never easy,” you reply generically, correctly guessing that Mike doesn’t need much from you to continue talking about the move, where they’re going, and why. All you need to do is grunt every once in while to show your listening and he fills the silence, which honestly is your preference—you’ve never been much of a talker.

You pick up your side, noting the wood feels noticeably cold, odd given it's been sitting out all day in the sun, but it feels solid enough that you focus on that instead. You’re more than willing to listen as Mike helps you drape a tarp over it, secure it down with bungee cords, hold things out of the way while you get everything all settled. 

The only time he falters is when he gets a good look at the sign stuck to it. “What the…?” You see him mouth the word ‘haunted’ as he pales. Quickly, he reaches out and pulls the sign free, folding it up and then tossing it near the other trash they have out. “Kids,” he says vaguely when he sees you looking at him. “Always joking around.”

“Right,” you reply, not sure what else to say. You shrug and turn to check that it's not blocking too much of your rear mirror. Then you make sure everything else in the truck bed is secure before you gesture that Mike can jump down.

You follow, squinting in the sudden burst of wind that blows dust and dirt into your face. Once you blink your vision clear, you give the other man a nod. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem,” Mike replies, hands in his pockets, staring up at the piano. “Sad to see it go, but it’s not like anyone was playing it here. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” you say and after a moment of silence, head around to go. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Mike replies.

As you drive away, you see him by the trash bins, breaking down the cardboard sign surprisingly thoroughly before stuffing it under the lid.

Your eyes flick to your new, free piano. Possibly haunted? You roll your eyes as you focus back on the road. Nah, the only scary thing is how much effort (and money) it's gonna take to get this thing up and running again. 

Well, you’ve got plenty of time for it at least.

[sailorhyunjinz]

~ 𝐈𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 ~

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 ; chan x fem!reader, bonnie&clyde!au, criminal!au, 60′s!au, bank robbery, heavy use of tobacco, explicit language,weaponry, mentions of infidelity, manipulation, mentions of murder, mentions of reader being smaller than chan, mentions of religious beliefs, authorities, american style!au, death, implied su-cide. 

𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘸 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 ; SMUT!! sex against a wall (lmao good warning there cherry), dom!chan x sub!fem!reader, angry sex, dry humping, degradation, blowjob, face fucking, rough sex, dacryphilia, choking, possessiveness, implied corruption kink, creampie, unprotected sex (be careful plz), piv, clitorial stimulation, orgasm (m/f), cum. 

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 ; 5.9 k 

𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦 ; this was heavily inspired by both well bonnie and clyde but also “the serpent” because holy fuck i loved that serie so much 

also warning right; this is purely fiction and not meant to romanticise crime and i think it’s pretty obvious that i don’t know shit about how to rob a bank neither do i know anything about weapons,,, so take this with a grain of salt.

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥.

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 18

It was love. Love had led you down this path and shattered the one you cared the most about, the one that held your hand, the one that promised to die for you. Silence filled your mind as you stroked his cold cheek, his eyes closed. 

Your partner in crime.

Bang Chan.

“Tonight, coming up on channel 4, the continuation of the Lagoons.”

You turned the knob on the car radio, the windows on the silver vauxhall viva rolled down, your hair fluttering in the light breeze that accompanied the summer heat. The voice on the radio got distorted as you shifted channels, the antenna on the car barely being able to pick up signal from how far out in the desolate area the two of you were.

“Who the fuck watches the lagoons?” you said, furrowing your eyebrows, searching for some funky tunes as Chan was driving, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. He laughed, the cigarette smoke whiffing over to you, burning at the tip and hanging out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Where we heading, sweet cakes?” he asked, cocking his eyebrows and checking himself out in the rearview mirror. You scoffed, adjusting the silk scarf around your head and reaching into the glove compartment of the light colored interior of the car, grabbing the half empty cigarette box. 

“Don’t call me that, I’m married” you say, the flicker of the metal zippo echoing, a purple flame igniting and burning the white end of the cigarette in your mouth, the orange part quickly stained by your lipstick. Chan smirked, casting a glance at you as you puffed, putting the lighter on the dashboard and leaning back against the leather seats, exhaling the smoke through the window as you observed the mountains that passed you, sweltering heat making your vision blur.

“And still you fuck me. What’s he good for? Cheating on you? You should just throw that ring away, I’ll buy you a new one”

The ring.

You and your ex-husband never officially divorced. You just packed up your things and left one night when he was out drinking, probably snogging a woman younger his age. The emerald ring that he once put on your finger held no meaning, it was simply for aesthetic now. Memorabilia from when life was worse, reminding you to always strive for something better. It was ironic, the way the sun shined on the emerald green symbolizes wealth and toxic jealousy. You couldn’t help but to feel jealous of the many young women he spent his nights with. You thought you had moved on but maybe you hadn’t since you refused to let go of the ring. Thank god you didn’t have his child or else you’d be tied down for life. You escaped at the right time. 

You didn’t answer Chan, simply staring out at the window. The car zoomed past with speed, there was no time for resting since you two were the infamous criminals that could be captured at any moment, it was still a miracle you were alive and well despite how many times you’ve been in open fire with the authorities. The two of you always managed and had each other in the end and the plethora of guns that were loaded in the trunk could buy you freedom for a little while. A gritty highway that never seemed to end, the tumbleweeds rolling about in the distance, he searched for a place you could rest since dusk would soon arrive. Life as a runaway couple had it’s ups and downs but the worst part of it was not knowing if you would survive another day, cops could just arrest you, rip you from your lover and lock you up like you were once before, writing love letters to Chan on a filthy piece of paper until you were bailed out by none other than your mother that you abandoned for him. They didn’t understand. He might be a criminal, stealing cars with his older brother since he admired his fancy lifestyle with hookers, expensive liquor and gold. He was so close until he stumbled up to you through a mutual friend and fell head over heels, he was too much of a hopeless romantic for him to be able to lead such a lifestyle. 

A big sign was ahead of you, a small red building inching closer to the two of you. Sure, it wasn’t the safest place, anyone could call the authorities on you but luckily telecommunications weren’t that advanced out here, most of the news being the ones you heard from between others lips. You two were simply a married couple whatever new village you infiltrated or at least that’s what people thought, the two of you were simply well-off, being able to afford the most expensive cigars and perfumes. The cigarette had burned down, almost meeting your plush lips that were covered in the latest lipstick. You threw it out the window, Chan had done the same moments prior. 

“What you say, hm? How about here for tonight?” he asked in a low voice, his hair slicked to the side, his jaw clenching as he rested his head on the headrest, looking at you with a quick glance with a smile. He always smiled when he gazed at you, it was almost a reflex. He was too smitten with love. You nodded, grabbing your oval sunglasses from the seat in between you and Chan, putting them on and observing yourself in the exterior mirror. Now you were ready for greetings with strangers, hiding behind your dark tinted shades.

The young man swerves onto the dusty driveway, the dust billowing from behind the car as stones flew everywhere, the car coming to a hasty halt. Your back bounced against the seat, removing your safety belt and opening the car door, stepping out with your shining red heels. The hotel seemed kinda small, perfect place for two sought-after criminals to hide. The building was a cherry red, tacky curtain in mustard yellow covering the chipped white window frames that held up the grimy glass panes. It lied in a remote place, being the only building as far as the eyes could see, beside the hotel there was a kiosk where one could buy the most basic necessities like bread, milk and cigarettes. As you were looking around the place, standing with your feet wide and your hand on your hip, Chan was busy unpacking the car. Not the weapons that were nicely hidden beneath a blanket but your two small briefcases containing nothing more than a couple of expensive clothes, makeup, a small notebook of your poems, a camera and photos of relatives. As you observed the mountainous landscape and dry land where cactuses made their home a small old man hurried out, dressed in a half-dingy suit and vest, the colorful tie being the main focus.

“Welcome welcome!” he says in a scurried voice. “Please, let me!” The old man shuffled over to Chan, grabbing the briefcases out of his grasp to which Chan bowed subtly in thankfulness. You and him followed the man inside through a lime green door and were greeted by the lobby that had a dark oak check-in counter, decorated with small trinkets of older times, a golden clock and small piles of paper. The man put down the bags in front of the desk, you casting a glance at Chan that was looking at the keys and the tags attached on the walls on small hooks.

“How long will you be staying for?” the man asked to which Chan hummed, looking at you before clearing his throat and answering - “Just one night”

“alrighty hmmm,,, then I’m guessing a double bed would suit your fancy? You do make a lovely couple indeed” he said with a smile, showing off his yellow stained teeth, years of coffee and tobacco. You smiled, clenching your jaw in frustration. 

“Thank you, which room exactly?” you said quickly, wanting the old man to hurry his actions. He looked back, exposing his half-balding grey head of hair and stretched for a pair of keys at the top, the keys jingling as he put them on the desk. 

“Room 4, it’s just here by the side. That will be 30 dollars” he said, writing something down on a piece of paper. Chan opened one of the luggages, quickly pulling out the needed amount and tips out from one of many wads of cash that were neatly tucked away between clothes and other products. He put the green bills on the desk to which the old man heightened his eyebrows, the generous tip falling to his liking. 

“Keep the change” Chan said with a smile, picking up the briefcases and heading to the room. You smiled at the old man as well, picking up the keys and turning to head over to your lover. 

You put the keys in the lock of the brittle wooden door, a small golden plate saying ‘4′ with a clear font. As the door opened you were met by a rather rustic room, the walls colored light blue and the bed frame the same wood as the door, murky white duvet covers on the bed. Luckily it was just one night.

Chan started packing up your belongings, mainly picking up a map of the area that he bought at a supermarket hours prior. He unfolded the bunt of paper, laying it flat on a vanity that had a round mirror attached in front. He placed his index finger harshly on a certain point on the map, his fingers clad in all kinds of rings with jewels. 

“Here we are, Johnsons motel, right?” You nodded at his question, him continuing talking in a firm voice. “So if we take this route tomorrow at around 9 am we should be there by 10:50 am which is perfect, we c-” You interrupted him mid sentence.

“Chan, you told me we weren’t gonna do this until next week, we have money!” you yelled, only then remembering that the walls are thin in such a matured building. He sighed, turning to gaze at you with dark eyes. He hated it when you contradicted him, it was almost like he was addicted to making you his slave and sure, he did take care of you whenever you were hurt due to his actions but he liked having you totally dependent on him, risking your life for him. The veins running down his arms got bolder, he moved the arm that was holding him up from the vanity instead standing right in front of you with a wide stance, his eyebrows heightened.

“What did you say?”

Your back hit the tasteless blue wallpaper as Chan walked towards you, trapping you between the wall and his muscular figure. A harsh gulp descended down your esophagus as you gazed intently into his hooded eyes, yours twinkling with mere innocence though you were far from innocent in the eyes of the public. He looked you up and down, almost swearing with his eyes, gliding his tongue against the inside of his cheek. 

“I said why can’t we just wait with that for a bit? We robbed multiple stores last week and we have money? I don’t see why you need to hurry so, like fuck s-”

“So you think money grows on trees? We do this together y/n and I could just leave you whenever, I’d just laugh seeing your ass trying to survive”

He leaned closer to your ear, his body pressed against yours. His hot breath lingered near you, tickling the shell of your ear.

“Or better yet I could kill you, no one needs a criminal” 

His voice vibrated through you, the deep tone scaring you but oddly turning you on, the heat pooling around your core, your panties sticking to the thin fabric of your panties. You burst into laughter, catching him off guard.

“You motherfucker” you said through your teeth, smiling brightly at him. 

“I don’t like this attitude you’re giving me y/n, I’m not joking with you” he said with a devilish smirk, moving away from your ear and staring into your soul. It was almost as if he stared through you, his jaw moving as he clenched it.

“Does it look like I’m joking?” your facial expressions turned serious in seconds, the smile wiping off your face. You looked him dead in the eyes, not even flinching when he smashed the rough palm of his hand on the wall next to your head, the loud sound echoing in the cool room, the slight humming of the air conditioner above the bed.

“No and you won’t be after I fuck you” 

You wanted to rile him up even more, get him so angry that he had no other choice but to pin you against the wall and stuff his cock so far down your leaking cunt that you’d alert the other guests around the motel, hearing how good Chan fucks you. 

“Hah,,, is that your only threat?” you chuckled mockingly, running your pointer finger up his toned chest, lifting up his head by his chin and flicking your finger off it, striking a jeering smile at him. His knee traveled up your leg, jabbing at your wet clothed entrance to which you accidentally moan, the gain of friction finally arriving when your core was burning with pure arousal as Chan spoke. With a gleaming look in your eyes you rubbed against his knee, his slightly cold hands wrapping around your neck, feeling your larynx bob when you swallow your spit, not breaking eye contact for a second. His lips landed on yours, pushing his knee against your sex causing you to moan into the kiss as you rolled your hips on the flat surface of his dress pants. Your lips pursed, teasingly biting his bottom lip as a sign that you needed him, his tongue slipping into your mouth and danced around with yours in a sloppy battle. Your hands fumbled with the big metal buckle of his belt, undoing it in desperation and unzipping the black pants that covered his bottom half. Chan grunted as you palmed him through his boxers, his erection begging to be freed from it’s clothed prison, you squeezed his member, massaging it in your hands to make his knees weak, make him beg for you but this time you would be begging for him as he placed removed his knee from your dripping cunt causing you to whine from the loss of contact. 

“C-chan, please I need you” you pleaded in a thin voice, lifting your head up as his kiss diverted to your neck, his rough lips leaving kiss after kiss on the sensitive skin, moving down to your exposed collarbones. 

“You’ll only get what you want if you do whatever I ask you to”

You nodded eagerly, putting your hands down his boxers and stroking his cock, Chan groaning against the skin of your neck near your ear, your earrings rattling. 

“Yes, I’ll do anything! J-just fuck me already” you whimpered, your hot cheek against the wall. 

“Then you follow your little ass to the bank tomorrow and do what you are told, understood?” His voice was deep, humming as he nibbled on your ear, giving it small kitten licks.

“And if I don’t?” You challenged him for a last time, stopping your slow strokes down the shaft of his twitching dick and removing your hands from his underwear and instead wrapping your arms around his waist. He scoffs, pulling back and looking you in the eyes, slowly putting his hand around your throat and tightening.

“I’ll choke you to death, you know I’ll get away with it” he said with a lifeless smirk. You nodded in pure fear, your eyes twinkling in the minimal light that came from the sun setting outside the dusty windows. Suddenly his hands grasp a handful of your hair, gripping it by the roots and shoving you down on your knees that land on the frangible floorboards with a thump. He harshly lets go of your hair in order to pull down his pants and underwear, his hard veiny cock springing free mere inches from your saliva coated lips. Chan gave his cock a couple of strokes before rubbing the crimson tip against your lips, hissing when you poke your tongue out, him smearing his precum against the surface of your wet tongue. You pursed your lips around him, slowly working your way down his shaft, taking a breath of air every time you pull away, licking the underside of his dick with fat stripes all the way from the base to the tip, flicking your tongue off. His big hands grabbed either side of your head, him thrusting inside your throat, not caring if you gagged, that just made him even more viscous, hearing your desperate moaning and seeing the spit run down your chin and neck covered in his marks. Your head bumped against the wall with every thrust, your nose pressing up against his abdomen as he was balls deep inside your mouth. Your eyes burned, tears teasing at your tear duct, a cold salty stream rolling down your cheek as he stopped, pulling out your mouth, you coughing violently. He swiped his thumb over your cheek, wiping the tear with one finger before grabbing you by the neck, lifting your head up and looking into your eyes as he inserted his dick in your mouth once again, your thick saliva making his cock glisten. His silent groans only made you helplessly rub your thighs together, eager to have him inside of you. Every moan that slipped from between his swollen lips made the blood rush south, not to mention his fierce eyes that were glued on you as he coldly fucked your skull, no hint of compassion. He stretched out your throat, the clear outline of his cock making its appearance on your esophagus as he went deeper, groaning as you felt him twitch inside your mouth. As the familiar sensation of a knot in his stomach descended upon him he pulled out, rubbing the tip of his leaking cock against your glistening lips before he was quick with his movements. 

It didn’t take much for Chan to throw you over his shoulder, legs thrashing and you squealing, telling him to put you down. He did but not in the way you expected, slamming you down on the plushy bed, a fine layer of dust swirling in the orange sunset that shined in. The impact caught you off guard, knocking the air out of your lungs. Chan climbed on top of you, his belt buckle touching your body as he hovered above you. You hastily shuffled upwards to the headboard, lifting your hips as you removed your brightly colored bell bottom pants revealing your panties that already had a wet stain decorating them, Chan chuckling as his thumb glided over the patch of wetness. 

“You’re so needy baby, all worked up from giving me a blowjob, huh? I can slip my cock into you so easily” he purred at you, his fingers hooking at the elastic band of your underwear, slipping them down to your ankles, you shimmying your foot out of the fabric and letting the panties dangle from your other foot as your spread your legs, Chan being in between them. He danced his fingers up the wet folds that presented themselves in front of him, you squirming at the slightest touch. 

“You think you have control, you think you can do anything without me? You’re wrong, without me you’re nothing” he growled at you, his fingers covered in your slick as he teased your clit, fingers rolling in circles as you clutched onto the covers, knuckles whitening. You hurried by taking off your top, throwing your bra somewhere in the same direction, exposing your hardened buds, Chan’s mouth watering. He did the same, momentarily losing contact with your wet cunt as he pulled off his shirt, his perfectly sculpted body surprising you every time, as if you hadn’t fucked him countless times before. Chan attached his lips to one of your nipples, the other one being fondled by his hand, the cold pure silver causing you to shiver. Your hands stroked his soft hair, twirling it between your fingers and softly whimpering. He left tiny marks all over your chest, his lips sucking and gently nibbling on your supple skin. When your entire chest was a mess of marks and spit he lifted your legs, leaning them against his wide sturdy shoulders as he teased your wet entrance, rubbing his tip against your folds causing your back to arch slightly, a long pitched mewl forcing its way out of your mouth. When he finally slipped his cock inside you he groaned at your tightness. 

“fuck y/n, you’re so tight no matter how much I fuck you” he said, leaning over you so that your legs almost touch your chest, planting one hand beside your neck as the other one choked you, the restriction of air making you lightheaded but only adding to the pleasure that burned at your core as he relentlessly fucked into your squelching cunt. Your feet dangled near his shoulders lifelessly as the sheer momentum of his thrusts made you move upwards on the bed, the bed frame creaking due to the age it carried, you hoped no one noticed what scandalous activities was going on this room but it was probably already too late as your moans turned into high pitched cries. Your hands folded over Chan’s wrist as you tried to stabilize yourself, it took every ounce of strength to not close your quivering thighs. His thrusts got faster, rolling his hips against yours as the hand around your neck loosed, a harsh slap landing across your tear stained cheek, his thumb dipping inside your mouth, you latching on instantly.

“Look at you, thinking you’re so tough. You’re weak, remember that” he said with a lifted smirk, asserting his dominance through his dark gaze. You nodded, feeding his ego even more as the hand around your neck tightened, making you lightheaded with arousal, his cock ramming into your tight cunt that begged for release just like you. Chan loved seeing you like this. All fucked out with drool hanging from the corners of your lips, your eyes rolling back into your skull as he vigorously made your world shake, going hard enough to make the bed squeak loudly, the headboard bumping into the wall with every thrust. You couldn’t form a single sentence, blabbering incoherent sentences with his name stringed into it, in your mind you made perfect sense but your hesitant lips didn’t do the same. 

“f-fuck!” you cried out, the even pace getting sloppier as the skin slapping sound grew louder, bouncing against the awfully colored walls of the shabby motel room. You squirmed around on the bed, flailing your arms as you desperately tried to grab onto either your lover or the flowery sheets, your efforts fruitless as you felt your orgasm approaching with wide strides as Chan started circling your swollen abused clit with the pad of the hand that wasn't forcefully holding onto your throat, making you swoon. You arched your back as you couldn’t hold on any longer, clenching around his cock with every ounce of perseverance. With weak legs you interlaced them, trapping him deeper inside you as the merciless fiddling with your bud made you let out a breathy broken moan, your tits bouncing with the movements. The male looked at the tears that rolled down your cheeks, adoring your bloodshot eyes. How he loved staring down at his prized possession. He had ruined a once innocent girl, made her his with the mere power of love and crime. 

He lulled his head back as he was dangerously close to his climax, drawing in a harsh breath from between his clenched teeth, the air cooling down in his mouth before warming up in his tobacco-stained lungs. He was sent over the edge with a final thrust that made your body jolt in excitement, his thumb now simply resting on your clit as all thoughts were wiped clean from his mind, his hot seed spilling into your cunt, unknowingly making you cum as your abdomen contracted, your teary eyes squinting together, not in pain but in pleasure. His cum painted the quivering walls of your sex, draping his body over yours as he panted, staying inside you to ensure every drop of cum was where it supposed to be. His lips were coated with a fine layer of saliva, two lips meeting in a loveable kiss. It might seem odd to others. That you love a man that only brings you down or uses you, at least that’s what it looked like from a different perspective but you were infatuated, maybe even obsessed. He made you famous and he took you under his wing when you fled from your scumbag of a husband. 

Now Chan was the only thing that mattered.

He pulled out, falling down beside you, the weight of the bed shifting as his built back hit it. The cum dripped out of you slowly, hitting the sheets and staining them. You ruffled your hair before you stood up, cum running down your inner thigh as you made your way over to the shower. Chan instead crept down under the covers, staring up at the ceiling in a half lying position, casting glance at the dark oak bedside tables where a packet of cigarettes was left haphazardly along with your metal zippo, a gift from your dad that died in war. It was important to you, important enough to destroy you with smoke. Chan retrieved one of the deadly sticks from it’s pretty eye catching packaging and lit one end, inhaling the smoke. He put one hand beneath his head that was supported by the pillow as he other one momentarily removed the cigarette, flicking the ashes on the cold tile floor, the grey thick smoke spreading through the room, interlacing the bed sheets with it’s scent. The gentle tapping of the water on the bathroom floor calmed him, calmed him from knowing that tomorrow might be the last day he’s alive. Or maybe it’s you. 

Here you were again, getting into the sparkling clean car that was loaded with nothing more than a multitude of weaponry that many times wasn’t used against civilians, just to give a gentle reminder that you don’t fuck with the two of you unless you wanna get a bullet burned through your skull. If they ask for it they are gonna get it.

Chan loaded the suitcases into the truck where a blanket covered the weapons, the pile of murder machines looking innocent like this. The sand of the desert was blowing in your face, your long skirt flowing in the wind. Just because you were a criminal didn’t mean you had to dress out of fashion, the style was a part of it. You gazed out into the valleys of dust, the lonesome tumbleweeds drifting with the wind like a blind rat following the smell of musky cheese, not aware that it’s heading to it’s own death.

“Ready, sugarplum?” Chan said, wrapping his hand around your head and leaning it against his sturdy shoulder. 

“I was born ready” you whispered into the wuthering wind. He smiled but put on a serious face as you looked at him, before walking over to the passenger seat, opening the car door.

“Let’s do what we do best, darling.” you said with a bittersweet grin, sitting down and closing the door. 

The bank wasn’t too far away, that being that it was still in the same state since many other robberies required long car rides that was either filled with funky tunes or more cigarettes than you can count. This one wasn’t any different. His two hands were gripping the steering wheel as he drove faster than the speed limit, praying to whatever nonexistent god he had in his head that the police wouldn’t flash their red and blue sirens behind the vehicle. He probably prayed to the money. He often said that money did things not even god was able to do and there was truth in Chan’s words or maybe the both of you were too infatuated with the idea of money that you would go to any lengths just to get it. Just to smell the fresh dollar bills in your hands. The car was in complete silence, only the growling of the engine being heard. It was always scary heading to a new place, you never knew what would happen there. Maybe it’s the last time you witness your lover behind the steering wheel, the last time you feel the wind fluttering through you hair due to the rolled down window. Maybe it was the last time you would see the emerald green jewel reflecting it’s light as the sun bounced off the glossy surface of the stone. You denied your longing for your husband, beside all the cheating and drugs you were ready to stay with him but there was one thing that Chan could do better; love. 

You could tell how tense Chan was. The way he anxiously checked the rearview mirror and forcefully looked straight at the neverending road in the middle of nowhere. It was pretty apparent that this lifestyle was driving him mad, making all his nerves stand on the edge of his skin, paranoid to the bone. But there was no end in sight unless someone else put that end there. He was never gonna stop, go as far as he could and shoot for the stars. It was people like him, greedy people that life usually steered the wrong way and well,,, you were one of those as well, greedy for luxury even though the life you were living now was anything far from that. You turned to Chan, his one hand rested in his lap and you slowly reached over to grab it, rubbing your thumb over knuckles. His eyes momentarily diverted from the road to you, looking at your eyes that were focused on his slightly rough hands.

After what seemed like an eternity, Chan parked into the parking lot of the bank, the building being just as remotely placed as the motel. Perfect. The car was strategically placed near the road for easy escape if there would even be any required. As you stepped out of the car you opened the trunk, uncovering the multitude of weapons that lay beneath the blanket and passed Chan his favorite rifle, the M1918 Browning Rifle. You simply stuck to a revolver since you could hide it in your holster for when you needed two hands to grab the money and shove it into the burlap bag. 

There wasn’t much thought needed for the robberies that happened this far away from the city, the local police station was a good drive away so neither you or Chan worried too much but it was still a risk. The big wooden doors were slammed open by him, a shot up into the ceiling shattered a lamp and next second your ears were filled by the terrified screams of men, women and children. You didn’t hesitate your movements as you went up to the multiple receptionist desks where the women in neat uniforms were all kneeling on the floor. 

“Get the fuck up!” you yelled, jumping on the desk and pointing your gun at one of the girls, she looked rather young and innocent with her dark shaking pupils that wandered with pure fear. You yelled at her to open all the vaults, to which she complied not having any other choice than to get shot. Her hands quivered as she put the money in the bag, filling it up with valuable green bills that would promise you dreams. You glanced back at Chan that was pointing the rifle at the people that lied down on their stomachs with their hands on their head, the sound of a child's tears not even bothering him or his conscience. You held the gun to her head, lonesome tears streaming down her face as her legs were barely able to hold her up. A smile cracked on your crimson painted lips as the bag filled up, the feeling of adrenaline rushing through your blood making you fly on the clouds, you could do whatever you wanted in this moment. You were free. 

Just as you were about to turn around, signaling to Chan that the mission was done you heard another gunshot that was foreign from the usual sounds of the weapons you carried. It didn’t sound like it came from inside the building. The second after you heard a window shatter, glass flying over the civilians that screamed in fear once again and then you heard a thump, a loud one. You looked over your shoulder and there he was, your lover with a bullet through his back, the puddle of sangria red blood spreading over the bright vinyl flooring. This was the sight you feared the most in the world and here it was, right in front of your naked eyes. You dropped the revolver you held in your dominant hand and rushed over to him as you heard a male voice over a megaphone from outside the building. 

“Civilians, exit the building immediately”

The crowd of people squeezed through the doors, fleeing to whatever corner they could or hiding behind the countless cop cars that flashed their colorful sirens. You dragged Chan’s head into your lap as you fell down in defeat, looking at his closed eyes and his face that turned a pale blue with hints of grey, he was cold to the touch and his blood stained your clothes as well as the floor, the dark red marks on the floor that lead to his body as you dragged him closer to you, cupping his cheek. Frigid tears rolled down your cheeks and accumulated on your chin before dripping down onto his face, coloring his lips with a clear sheen. 

He wasn’t gone, he simply couldn’t be. He was your Chan, the Chan that always got away no matter what. Nothing could stop the two of you, not a stupid bullet through his back. You shaked him as you sobbed loudly, your lips quivering as black streaks of mascara covered the supple valleys of your cheeks. 

“Chan! Chan, fuck!! Wake up!!” you yelled as you shook him vigorously but his lifeless body was limp in your arms, no sign of life to be seen. You hugged him closer, not feeling his heartbeat or lungs filling with air from this cursed place. He wasn’t gone, he was still here and he would wake up one day, you told yourself these lies because they are easier to believe than the cold hard truth. Your blood boiled with pure rage. Somebody had stopped your dream life, that someone being the law itself but no matter who it was it still stopped you and you never took no for an answer. Your empty lost gaze diverted to the loaded gun that lied only footsteps away from your cowered body.

“Exit the building, leave the weapons” you heard the voice call out from outside, the megaphone crackling and distorting the voice. 

What was better?

Dying in the hands of the authorities or dying in Chan’s arms?

[spinningintheshadows]

How Things End With JJ

This is a prequel to the "JJ When Your Daughter Gets Sick at School"

The fight was stupid really

You’d had a long day at work and were stressed out

Rylie had been clingy as fuck since you picked her up from John B and Sarah after school

And JJ?

Well he was supposed to be off work four fucking hours ago and he still wasn’t home.

You’d gotten Rylie to bed an hour earlier and were looking over bills when he came home

He was drunker than drunk.

“Don’t even talk to me”

“Baby”

“No! You don’t get to “baby” me. You were supposed to get off work four hours ago, JJ! And now you just stroll in here drunk off your ass and think it’s okay”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I needed permission from my wife to go out with my colleagues after work”

“You don’t! But you know a text that told me where you were and that you weren’t in a ditch somewhere bleeding out would have been nice”

He just stared at you.

“I’m going to bed, sober the fuck up”

You locked him out and made him sleep on the couch that night.

And things were tense for weeks.

He started coming home later and drunk more often

And that annoyed the shit out of you.

“Can you maybe not be your dad for a couple nights.”

And that pissed him off.

He was in your face screaming

“Don’t you dare compare me to the that piece of shit!”

“Well! You come home four nights a week drunk, JJ! Your daughter has to see you that way! You’re acting like him even if you don’t realize it!”

He storms out that night.

And you don’t see him home for another week.

So, you decided you’ve had enough.

And filed for divorce

“Irreconcilable differences”

JJ is at work when the well dressed intern shows up with the manilla envelope.

“Jonathan James Maybank?”

“That’s me”

“You’ve been served.”

JJ is dumbstruck

He sits down on the front step of the shop to read the papers

It was simple really.

He could have the house and if he agreed to stop drinking, 50/50 custody of Rylie.

But he wasn’t going to sign anything without a fight.

He showed up at the house, seething.

Luckily you were home alone as Rylie was at school.

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s an intent to divorce, JJ, what does it look like.”

“I’m not signing this.”

“Well good luck ever getting remarried then”

“I don’t want the house.”

“I don’t want a drunk ex husband”

“I’ve been sober for a week!”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“Oh wow, congratulations.”

You’re being sarcastic.

“You annoy the fuck out of me”

“Ditto.”

“I don’t want to ship her between us, Y/N!”

“Well you should have thought about that before you fucked up.”

“Well excuse me for going through something”

“You’ve gone through lots of things before! We’ve always talked about it! You’ve never shown up drunk like that before. Not even when we were dating.”

“Is this what you really want? To tear our family apart.”

“It’s not what I want, JJ, it’s whats best for Rylie.”

“What’s best for Rylie?”

He slams his hand down on the counter.

But his face softens when he notices you visibly flinch from it.

He knows that he’s fucked up then

He promised you he’d never hit you like his dad hit his mom

Like his dad hit him.

He knows that you know he would never hit you

But now you’re not so sure, visibly scared of his actions.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll sign them.”

“Okay.”

“But I don’t want the house.”

“JJ you built the house.”

“I built the house for us. This is the house I built the year we were engaged. This is the house we came home to on our wedding night. This is the house we planned to raise a family in. This is the house we brought our little barely six pound daughter home to. This is where Rylie has grown up, and it needs to stay that way. I’ll get an apartment.”

“Okay”

“And I want the custody agreement to work every other week.”

“What do you mean.”

“I mean she stays here Monday evening through you taking her to school on the following Monday, then stays with me that Monday evening until the following Monday when I take her to school.”

“Okay”

“And you call me if she ever needs anything.”

“Maybe it’s just easier if we only communicate for Rylie.”

His heart breaks at the words. How was he going to fix this if he couldn’t talk to you.

“Okay.”

So, he signed the papers.

And just like that, JJ Maybank was divorced, single dad of a five year old.

[storiesofsvu]

Fresh Start

Alex Blake x Elizabeth Keane Warnings: language, brief mentions of death, tiny piece of politics.

The moment Elizabeth announced her resignation she felt like the literal weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. A feeling that she had been burdened with for far too long, and one that came with far more baggage than she had expected. David’s whining and persistence that she rethink things were met with deaf ears as she happily wrapped up all loose strings and packed up her things. Settled into a nice hotel in the centre of Washington for her first official week no longer as President, she started wondering about where to go from here.

Not career wise, between the ongoing government salary and her savings, she was banking on this technically being retirement, though she’d probably end up picking up the odd job here and there to cure her boredom. No, this was about the world. The entire planet was at her choosing, she had no ties to anything or anyone anymore. The rest of her belongings were neatly packed away in a storage locker in New York, and while she briefly toyed with that, Manhattan seemed too public, especially right now. It was too flashy, being a hot spot for celebrities meant more reporters, more paparazzi, the exact thing she wanted relief from right now.

So she let out a small yet relaxed sigh as she leant back in the lavish hotel bed, the t.v quietly blared on in front of her, a South Park marathon playing. Beside her was a large pizza on one side (though lord did she miss New York pizza, maybe a stop over there was necessary wherever she ended up), her phone on the other, and a glass of nice scotch on the bedside table. She considered buying a map in the morning, tossing a dart to see where it would land, where her next adventure would begin.

As the mindless cartoon took over she laughed softly at it, and began to think if there were any people that she was eager to see, ones she may have neglected a little bit over the last years as politics overtook her life. There were plenty who fell to the side simply because they couldn’t understand just how cutthroat you had to be in today’s political climate, ones who she’d lost in the divorce, and ones she’d simply lost touch with. There were a few who she’d kept contact with during the campaign, and even after the election, but, as everyone is in adult life, they were all just busy, and there definitely weren’t any quick lunches when everyone she met had to be cleared by five steps of security before being allowed in a room with her. She poured a fresh glass of scotch, taking a small sip before reaching for a slice of pizza, distracted by the show once again as she let her worries slip away, she had all the time in the world to figure this out.

A moment later, the universe sent her a sign as her phone buzzed. Her personal phone, and finally, it was once again her only phone. She swiped open the text message,

‘Not sure if this is even your number still, but figured I would try. Not exactly like I can google it anymore.’ A laughing face emoji separated the text, ‘I can’t lie, I’m a little shocked you decided to step down, but I will admit, I understand where you’re coming from.’

‘I see someone’s bored and decided to start profiling my interviews.’ Elizabeth replied with a small smile on her cheeks.

‘More like the news was on in the background while I was grading papers.’

‘You’re not off chasing some serial killer right now I presume?’

Three little bubbles popped up while Alex typed, then they disappeared, only to reappear after a few moments, to disappear again before they finally continued before the message popped up.

‘Funny you should ask. It appears we’ve both made similar career choices recently.’

‘What happened?’ Elizabeth felt her heart slowly climbing into her throat, if Alex was well enough to teach, she was sure she was fine now, but that didn’t mean she had been the entire time. Working with the FBI was a dangerous gig, to be totally truthful, Beth had been worried about her in that career since they’d graduated, but she was just as ambitious, and would never tell someone to not follow their dreams or heart.

‘Case just hit me hard. Watched a teammate take a bullet meant for me. (He survived and is doing great, back at work) but it hit me harder than I thought. Resigned before we’d even landed back home.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Me too. But that wasn’t the point. What’re your plans now?’

‘I wish I knew.’ She let out a small chuckle, ‘my hotel here is booked for another week. Aside from that, I guess I have a lot to figure out.’

‘You should come here. Even just for a visit.’

‘First you’d need to tell me where here is, Alex.’ She smirked as she hit send.

‘Boston. Well, Quincy technically. Smaller, a little less people. It’s been a nice change. I think you’d like it.’

Elizabeth hummed for a moment, tapping her phone against her chin while she thought. It really wouldn’t be a bad idea, take only what she needed for now, see how she felt with the vibe, if maybe she’d want to settle down somewhere where she had a friend instead of somewhere where she could start with a blank slate. The more she thought about it, she felt like this was the right move, and figuring since Alex was offering, and had sent the first message, she clearly felt the same, Beth wouldn’t be imposing at all. Alex and Beth had met in college, two decades ago, the last two people studying in the library when they’d both been in search for the same book. Rather than arguing over the last copy, they decided to share it, passing it back and forth across the small table after they’d moved their things together. It was past two in the morning by the time they finally realized they should call it a night, exchanging numbers simply for the ease of continuing to share the book, or at least, that was the excuse.

They’d been wonderful friends, at each other’s sides for nearly everything, no matter what the cause, or how far apart they were geographically. Beth had been in Alex’s bridal party, and Alex had been her maid of honour, they went to the other person first when they got a positive pregnancy test, figuring out how to tell their husbands in a fun, creative way. And Beth was the first to show up when Ethan died, helping her through the entire grieving process, watching the way James started and continued to distance himself from the entire situation, depending more and more on alcohol and alone time. She wasn’t too surprised when she got the call from Alex that their marriage had officially ended less than a year later, and offered up the guest room in her Manhattan townhouse if Alex wanted an escape for a little bit.

In return, Alex was by Beth’s side the moment she heard about Andrew, this time having to dodge through a few more political hoops as Elizabeth was already working as a senator. It was Alex’s first experience seeing Beth in action in the role, and she would always commend her for managing to keep it together as much as she did for the work functions while she was going through literal hell. She was the one calming Beth down when there was fight after fight with her husband, the one Beth turned to and asked just how hard divorce was, and if she thought she’d make it through that or if she’d break completely. Alex was the one to reassure her that as painful as it would be, it would be less painful than continuing to live in the environment she was now, that he would be a constant reminder of Andrew, and the mistakes of the past, that Beth should instead focus on moving forward. Alex had based herself in New York for the next year, still with the FBI, flying in and out for cases, but was there to help Elizabeth transition into a life on her own, one that hopefully wasn’t too lonely.

The two of them knew that no matter what happened, they would always have each other. Even if it had been years since they’d seen each other, or months since they’d spoken to each other. They both had very heavy careers, and understood all the baggage that came with them, and thus, remained impeccably good friends. Honestly, there was no one else in the world Elizabeth would rather be with right now as she tried to figure out the next step, so she picked up her phone once again;

‘You sure I won’t be in the way? What neighbourhood are you so I can look up hotels?’

‘You wont be. And absolutely fucking not. I have a guest room, you’re not staying in some shitty hotel. How else am I supposed to be able to make you your faved sriracha scallops? You know they won’t travel well.’

‘Fine.’ Elizabeth laughed, ‘but I’m making that blueberry stuffed French toast in return.’

‘Oh god! I had nearly forgotten about that! Now you’re making me drool’

‘Good breakfast food has always done that for you.’

‘Oh stop.’ ‘How soon are you free? I’ll be on spring break starting the twelfth.’

‘That works perfectly. Gives me a bit to throw some stuff in storage and downsize a bit before I head your way.’

‘The twelfth it is’ Alex smiled softly, taking a sip of her wine as she turned back to the paper she was reading, waiting for Elizabeth to reply.

‘I won’t lie. I can’t wait to see you. It’s been far too long.’

‘It really has. Now I’m all excited. I’ll send you all the details in the morning? I’ve got a lecture at eight and I’ve really got to finish these papers.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘Good.’ ‘And Beth?’

‘Yes?’

‘You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, right?’

‘It’s you Alex, of course I do.’

___________ @screenee @jamiethetrans @natasha-danvers @imlike-so-gaydude @svulife-rl @gay-ass-bitch @oliviaswifey @mysticfalls01 @cmmndrwidw @bumblebear30 @molllss @svushots @nocreditinthestraightworld @imaginaryoperagloves @disn3y7 @samwithnoplan @multifandomlesbianic @swimmingstudentchaos891 @annegilletteslostwh0r3 @drduckthief @yesterdaysgone @whimsicallymad @alexusonfire @mmmmokdok @lazarettta @muscatmusic18 @sia2raw @ladysc @1-lindsay83 @ms-calhoun @holycrapraewth @poisonedcrowns @wannabe-fic-reader @when-wolves-howl

[untaemedqueen]

Third Wheeling

CEO!Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Chapter 24.

Warnings (Updating Still): Smut, Cheating, Unexpected Pregnancy, Unfaithful, Emotional Damage, Love

A/N: Really really huge thank you to my queen @xjoonchildx​ for making me the newspaper clippings. I love them so much! This is one of my favorite chapters because of how fun it looks! And as always I couldn’t have done it without @ladyartemesia​ and @ppersonna​

Yoongi takes a deep breath, letting the September air fill his lungs. Who knew life could be so fucking trying?

He turns his head to you, hearing your soft footsteps down the marble stairs. He notices the small splotches of paint on your skin and it fills him with a sense of calm. You're a sight for sore eyes.

"My baby," he breathes, leaving his glass of whisky on the outdoor patio and walking back into the mansion to be with you.

"I'm all dirty," you mumble, picking at the dried paint on your hands.

"I can make you dirtier." your fiance quips and you give him a lopsided grin at his joke.

His joke doesn't match his mood and your eyebrows furrow as his arms wrap around you.

You know just how stressed he is. You know just how much his heart hurts everyday that Sera refuses to sign the divorce papers. It wouldn't be nearly as bad if you didn't seem to be growing more and more everyday.

His chin rests atop your head and he stares past you to the two marble staircases that lead up to either wing.

Even though Sera is no longer here and she's in the guest house with Jin and your dog, her ghost seems to haunt the CEO at every turn.

"I want to buy a new house." he grumbles, pulling away and looking down at you.

"Why?" you ask softly, running your hands lovingly over his arms.

"This house fills me with nothing but bad memories. I see the leech everywhere I turn… I hate that. I want a fresh start." he admits, caressing your distended sides.

You hum in agreement. "Is it too much for you right now? You have so much on your plate. Let's look for a house together when we get married," you suggest.

Just the thought of marrying you makes his heart flip inside of his chest. The thought of holding you in his arms everyday until his last is miraculous and special.

"When we buy the new house, you can decorate it any way you want." he promises.

"Oh, I plan on it." you reply, pulling him towards the stairs.

"Where are we going?" he asks curiously, letting you take him with you.

"You need a distraction, baby boy."

He shivers at your tone, how strict it is. A small smile spreads over his face as he trudges up the stairs with you. "Yes, Mistress. I do."

"Jin?!" Sera calls, dropping her bags down at the front of the guest house.

She promised him she'd try and she thinks she's doing well so far. She only complains thirty percent of the day which is a lot better than the eighty percent she's used to. She's even held her tongue a few times when Jin has told her he's going to hang out with Leena.

"I'm getting ready for work, mouse." he calls back from upstairs.

His velvet voice fills her with joy and she rushes up the stairs without a second thought.

"Can I come with you?" she begs, peeking into his bedroom.

His hands wrap and tug at his tie as he turns to her with a raised eyebrow.

"No. You're still married." he states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

She scoffs gently, wrinkling her nose. There's something about how quick and dexterous his fingers are as he ties his tie that sends her stomach coiling.

He still hasn't had sex with her and he hasn't even kissed her after that fated day when she begged him to stay with her.

"Why not?" she whines softly, leaning against the door jamb.

Seokjin chuckles gently, rolling his eyes. "Because you won't sign the divorce papers, like a normal person." he announces.

"Why do you keep bringing it up?! It's always 'divorce this or divorce that,' aren't you tired of saying it yet?" the actress cries out.

Jin grabs his suit jacket, sighing so loudly that it scares the woman behind him.

"Yes, actually. I am tired of saying it. You should just do it."

"But why? It has nothing to do with you." she mumbles.

Turning to her, he tilts his head. "Yes it does. If you don't get divorced, I'm not staying with you. I'm not going to be the guy that makes another man a fucking cuckold. I don't want that, that's fucking disgusting. There's nothing for you in your marriage anymore. You don't get any money, you've been cut off, you don't love Yoongi, you don't even care! So why are you being so stubborn about signing a damn paper?"

She looks down at the floor, playing with the ends of her hair, not wanting to answer.

"Because you're spiteful," Jin answers for her, "but your spite is literally making my pregnant best friend sick. She's a nervous wreck because of you, Sera. I hate that. You have everything in the world you could possibly want. And you can't just sign a few fucking papers?"

Jin whistles for Gaesu as he squeezes past the actress in the doorway.

"I just-"

"You don't want to give up something because you're greedy. Yeah, I get it. You want others to be miserable because you've always been miserable your whole life," he turns to her, cupping her soft face and staring down into her amber eyes, "You don't need to continue to be an asshole. You need to focus on becoming a better fucking person. Not everything needs your input, sometimes you can just let everything go and you can start again on your own. Like now, you don't want to be with Yoongi, you want to be with me. And I see that you're trying, you're doing great so far. But I can only work with you as long as you work with me. And you still being married isn't working with me. It's the opposite."

She swallows thickly, looking up into his blazened mocha irises. He's so serious that it sends a shiver down her spine. When she whimpers gently, whether it's out of need or fear that he'll leave, he brushes his soft thumbs against the apples of her cheek.

"When you sign the papers, I'll sleep in your bed." he promises, pulling away.

She blinks once, twice, three times, watching him walk away from her.

Gaesu follows closely behind your best friend, excited to go to work with him.

"S-So I can't come to the club?!" she calls leaning over the banister.

"No, mouse, Leena will be there and I'm spending the night with her." Jin calls back, grabbing his car keys.

"What?! She touched you in front of me and you're just going to hang out with her again?!" she screams, hanging over the banister.

"One. Be careful, you might hurt yourself. And two, I'm sorry to break it to you but Leena has touched me so many times that her touch feels normal to me at this point. My best friend coming to hang out with me is perfectly fine. And what's more, her boyfriend will be there." your best friend calls back, opening the front door and leaving without another word.

"Fine. We'll see," Sera seethes through her teeth, walking towards her room.

Stepping into Miyoung's art studio, the natural light that bleeds through the glass ceiling really seems to highlight all of the paintings that line the walls.

"Well, if it isn't the famous artist in my very midst." Miyoung quips, stepping down the slightly curved staircase.

You smile up at the pretty woman, leaning against the wall with two coffee cups in hand.

You can see how Yoongi was always fond of Miyoung at a young age, she's beautiful and quirky with everything she does. Even her clothes scream unique and you love that.

The brown French beret that hangs from the side of her head and the long blue corduroy dress she has on screams artistry and you adore it.

"Brought you some coffee," you quip, holding up one.

"You shouldn't be drinking coffee, pregnant lady." she jeers, finally reaching the ground floor and wrapping her arms around you.

"Mine is decaf, thank you very much." you joke back, accepting the hug with open arms.

When you both turn to the walls of art where your paintings were, it's surprising to see the walls almost empty.

The people that walk to and fro with their hands respectfully behind their make your heart bloom with pride.

"Do you wanna know how much money you've made?" Miyoung whispers in your ear, a playful smile spreading on her face.

You roll your eyes, nudging her with your hip. "You know I don't care about that stuff."

"That's why you'll make tons of money." she murmurs back, earning a laugh from you.

People notice you easily when you laugh, turning to you with wide eyes. It's a bit strange to be recognized now because of the Dispatch pictures and it's even stranger when they begin to approach like they know you.

Yoongi's best friend from childhood doesn't stand for it for a second and within seconds she's fending them off with a polite smile.

"Pregnant women don't like to be crowded, if you have any questions about art, please come to me. I'm very in touch with the woman beside me." Miyoung announces, waving her hands for the people to move back.

When she shows you to the art gallery office, it feels like an out of body experience. "There were so many people." you breathe out, sitting down on the loveseat beside her large desk.

"You became famous pretty much overnight. What do you expect? People are salivating for more of your art." she announces, sipping her coffee.

It's such a bizarre thing to hear when you've only ever done painting as a hobby.

"Should I start making more art, you think?" you inquire, crossing your legs and leaning back into the comfy couch.

She hums, tilting her head. "No. I don't think so. I think you make people wait for more. Obviously not too long. But it's good to get people curious and excited for what you're going to do next, y'know? Finish the art for the mall and hotel. Have the baby and then start making more art. You've made millions of dollars on the thirty pieces you've released. That's enough to get people really excited for the next release."

You nod understandingly, letting your eyes drift over the two paintings you've created for her office.

"You're my most successful client ever. I'm proud of it." Miyoung says, making you giggle.

Your heart feels warm in her presence and you can understand why your fiance has always been fond of her. She's an amazing woman.

"Call Minho to help you get downstairs when you're ready."

"Is that necessary?" you quip, sipping your coffee.

"Of course! You're famous now." she gasps, leaning over her glass desk with a playful smile.

Yoongi sighs loudly, throwing his suit pants into his luggage.

He hasn't been able to relax for a single second. He can only pray that paparazzi in Japan aren't as desperate as Koreans.

Staring down at the multitude of watches that spin on their platforms, he gets lost in his worries.

You're giving birth in only three months time. How is he going to cope? What kind of father is he going to be? Is he going to live up to what he wants? Are you going to be proud of him?

He's so worried.

But he's more worried about the leech. When the fuck is she going to sign that goddamn paper?

He opted for platonic parting rather than suing, because it would be messier that way but Sera is so spiteful that he doesn't know what to expect. He knows Jin is trying his hardest to rein her in but who knows how long that will take. It's nerve wracking to say the least.

Yoongi's eyes flutter shut as your arms wrap around him like needy vines. The feeling of your rotund belly against his back has him sighing so softly it barely reaches your ears.

"How are the paintings coming?" he asks gently, turning around in your grasp to cup your face with both hands.

"They're almost finished." you reply, hugging him tightly.

He hums sweetly, letting his lips drift over your forehead. "Have you packed for Japan?" he murmurs, letting the sweet scent of your lavender shampoo enrapture his senses.

"I packed a little this morning, but I got caught up in my inspiration. I have to finish." you announce, putting your cheek to his bare chest.

The warmth of you against his body is so welcome during his time of uneasiness. "I'll help you pack. Just hold me for a little while. It feels good." your fiance breathes out, squeezing his eyes closed tighter.

You're so comfortable within his arms, you have no intention of moving. You can feel his rapid heartbeat and you know exactly why he's on edge but you don't bring it up.

Late nights in your post-coital glow, you've talked extensively about both of your worries and you've come to the realization that they're the same fears.

"I'm going to have to stay inside in Japan, aren't I?" you quip, looking up at him.

He snorts gently, putting his chin on the top of your head. "Probably yes. Does that upset you? I bought out the penthouse so there's a lot for you to do."

His voice is wrapped with guilt but you decide to not dwell on it. Just going somewhere with him is enough for you. You don't care if you have to stay inside, it'll be nice to leave the country for the first time with him by your side.

"Plus, y'know, soon you'll be too big to go anywhere. That's what the doctor said." he whispers.

You smile into his chest, accepting his soft voice. "I know. I'm happy to be going anywhere with you."

His thumb and index finger capture your chin, he tilts your head up so your eyes meet. It's so easy to fall into his mocha irises and the smile that spreads over your lips is so natural. When he bends down, your breath stutters in your throat and the feel of his lips on yours is something so sensational, there are no words that could describe this.

"I love you, little dove."

"I love you too."

Jin should have known Sera wouldn't take kindly to Leena showing up at the club. But he didn't think she would go so far as to show up to the club.

She looks completely terrifying sitting in her booth. She's alone and completely menacing. Even with all of the people around she can find Seokjin in a matter of seconds no matter where he goes and he doesn't know whether to find it attractive or completely scary.

"She's staring at you again," Leena quips, leaning deeper into Taehyung's embrace.

Seokjin hums in agreement, looking down at his Italian leather shoes.

"Just go talk to her or some shit. She's making me uncomfortable," Leena whines, nudging her best friend.

Jin looks over at the actress and he sighs loudly. Her eyes are narrowed at him and her lips are parted over the champagne glass in her hand.

When he stands, he can see her body go rigid with excitement.

"Good luck, bro." Taehyung laughs, kissing over his girlfriend's exposed shoulder.

It's a quick walk over to Sera's booth as Jin wades through the groups of people on the dance floor.

When he steps up to the platform, he can see how nervous she is.

"Why did you come? You know that's trouble." he chides her, sitting down in the booth.

"Because she was coming." she sneers, nodding her head to Leena.

The eye roll Jin gives is so severe that it sends chills down Sera's spine.

"You came all the way here, got snapped by the paparazzi, ordered thousands of dollars of alcohol, because you were jealous that Leena is here?! You're such a baby." he scoffs, pouring himself a glass of champagne.

"I just wanted to be here with you too," she admits meekly.

Jin looks her over before zipping up her dress to cover her exposed cleavage. "Behave tonight. Do you understand me, Kim Sera? I'm tired of having to worm my way out of awkward situations."

She nods gently and when she gets a small smile from him it makes her pride expand tenfold.

"Will you sleep in bed with me tonight?" she asks softly, sliding down the booth to be beside him.

He snorts gently, letting his arms expend over the top of the seat. "Not until you sign the papers. You know this. Don't push your luck." he chides, poking her cheek softly.

She pouts gently, looking down at the hem of her dress.

"All I have to do is sign the papers and you'll be with me?" she asks unsurely.

Jin hums in agreement, pushing some hair behind her ear. "All you have to do is free Yoongi from this marriage and you can have me." he promises.

Her cheeks puff out as she thinks, is anything ever really that simple? She's never found it to be so.

"I'll think about it." she breathes out.

That's good enough for Jin at the moment and for the first time in a long time he smiles widely at her. The expression is so blinding that her heart stutters in the recesses of her chest.

Yoongi is so completely thrilled when he throws both of your luggages to the penthouse floor.

"Wow," you breathe out, rushing over to the large windows.

Your fiance's smile is sweet and soft as he folds his arms, leaning against the gold wall.

The scenery that meets your eyes is indescribably beautiful. The way the gentle breeze in the Osaka air blows cherry blossom petals from their trees and the countless gardens that scatter the grounds below set such mysticality into your bones.

"There's an infinity pool up here for us. It's warm," Yoongi announces, walking towards you.

Your hand lands on your stomach as you watch the petals blow in the breeze. "This is beautiful," you say aloud.

The father of your child's lips are soft against the back of your neck and in your entrancement, you hadn't even heard him come close to you.

"You're beautiful. Anything for you, little dove." he promises, placing both of his hands on your stomach.

The stress seems to melt away as you stare out the window with your fiance behind you. His lips are soft and plush against the column of your neck and it wipes your mind completely blank.

When your fingers card through his hair, the gentle puft of air that warms your neck makes your legs weaker.

"I love you." Yoongi breathes.

There's nothing sexual about his touch, it's just pure passion that seems to bleed through his fingertips. But the feeling of him so close is so heavenly.

The soft classical music that plays throughout the large room is so peaceful and your worries float away for just a little while.

Next Chapter ------>

Third Wheeling Taglist -  @wickizer​, @imluckybitches​, @slothykreuger, @claireelise19, @ggukkieland​, @rspbrryy​, @iv-bts​, @bambuzlee​, @chanelbts​, @mxxngxdss​, @bluewhale52​, @milesjeon11​, @diamonddia-mond​, @vinylphwoar, @xnxy97​, @hubbytaehyung, @140503at-dawn​, @bts-7beauts​, @jadeblackwoll, @sunshiine-hobii, @creatorspalace​, @eclectically-esoteric​, @nikkiordonez12​, @kaitswrld​, @skamlover200​, @sevgilove98, @kooeuphoria​, @jikooksgirl19​, @hobbledehoy26​, @singular-itae​, @dchimminie​, @lowlifeoeuvre​, @sugaslittlekookies​, @bloopbloopb, @pjmcth​, @softysuho​, @codeinbelle, @jaiuneamesolitaiire​​, @betysotelo18​​, @jeonmisha​​, @iwanttohitmyself​​, @ayyyocee​​, @neverthefirstchoice​​, @itsbangtanoclock​​, @little7bitchh​​, @veryuniquenamegoeshere​​, @deathkat657​​, @firstlovesuga-93​​, @namjoonia​​, @paperpurple​​, @muzikabijou​​, @liebeoppa, @veronawrites​​, @kleff03​​, @ruinsofangels​​, @brightwingr5​​, @leekanchol​​, @rkivemagic​​, @ithinkileftmycoatoutside​​, @melaninkpops​​, @y00ngisbabygirl​​, @ungodlyjoon​​, @prochnost513​​, @dunixxd​​, @athenakyle​​, @igotnotype​​, @chxmachxps​​, @tinymintyoongi, @vangameren-blog​, @alpaca1612​, @ohcarolinamin​, @thegreatestsushi​​, @eltrain80​​, @btsmylife21​​, @deeepvibes​​, @httpminyg​​, @deliciouslydisturbed365​​, @rkchmestizangmaldita​​, @jimin-chu, @pimpnameyannie​​, @preciouschimine​​, @daughterofthequeen, @monetsberet​​, @vanillamyg, @aamxxrii​​, @kooafraid​​, @ladykadyrova​​, @singjisu​​, @yazanii​​, @moonlitmyg​​, @justzeera​​, @absolutefantrash​​, @whocaresarchives​​, @loosewindmill, @vantesfx​​, @bt21chim​​, @flowerboyhobi​​, @kozuume-kenma, @taepiper​​

Sorry for those it didn’t tag!

[nmikaelsonimagines]

Divorce, Part Two: A Klaus Mikaelson Headcanon

Request from Anon: (For when requests are back on) could you do a part two to divorce were the reader actually tries to run away with the baby

Hope this is okay for you lovely, and enjoy x

Need to catch up? Find Part One just below:

Divorce, Part One

Or maybe you want to see more? Find Part Three just below:

Divorce, Part Three

You pack your bags when you walk into what used to be your bedroom and see the divorce papers still sitting on the dresser. You’d only gone into Klaus’s room to find one of your daughter’s toys, otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered, too many now painful memories residing in the walls. It was as you were searching that you found the papers that should have been sent to your lawyer months ago.

You should have known better than to trust Klaus with the divorce. You knew he hadn’t really wanted it, knew that he wanted you to stay as his wife, but when he had told you he would handle it, you couldn’t help but trust him.

Stuffing the papers into your bag, with a mind to hand them into your lawyer’s on your way out of New Orleans, you survey the room that you’ve shared with your daughter over the past six months. You see the ghosts of memories, of Klaus playing with his eldest child. It was those moments that you almost thought you could be a family, those moments that you almost told him that you wanted him back.

Because you do. You do want him back, but he broke your trust, and continues to do so.

You pick up your daughter, placing a kiss on her head before making your way out of the Mikaelson compound.

You don’t know where you’ll go, but you don’t care as long as its far away from Klaus. He’s proved time and time again that he can’t be trusted, that he doesn’t have your best interests at heart, and as much as you hate what you’re doing, taking his daughter away from him is the only thing you can think of. You’re so angry at him, and you’ll know that you’ll regret your decision in a few weeks, but right now, all you can focus on is hurting him.

On making sure your daughter never has to feel the same hurt that he caused you. The hurt of being let down.

You’re halfway to the train station when a figure blocks you. “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” You don’t look at Klaus, instead at the note in his hand. You’d left a sheet of paper on his bed, a single word scrawled on it.

Goodbye.

“Get out of the way, Klaus.” You go to move around him, but his supernatural speed is no match for you. You look at him now, at the anger in his eyes. It’s anger that you’ve only ever seen reserved for his enemies, and never in a million years did you think it would be directed at you.

But then, you hadn’t thought a lot of things would happen. You hadn’t thought he would discard your marriage vows, hadn’t thought he would abuse the love you’ve felt for him over the years. You hadn’t thought you would be here, your idea of the perfect family torn to pieces.

“You can’t leave, Y/N. You can’t take my daughter away from me. I did what you wanted, I signed the papers.”

“But you never handed them in. I’m still your wife, Klaus.” You look at him with an equal level of anger, one that falters when his eyes soften.

“Don’t you want to be?”

“You know how I feel.”

And then he does something you don’t expect. Klaus Mikaelson, the stubborn, arrogant bastard that you fell in love with, cups your cheek with his hand. “I know that you still love me,” his voice is barely a whisper, “as I love you.”

He removes his hand, and places a kiss on your daughter’s head. As he lifts his own head, you can’t help but notice how close his lips are to yours, how easy it would be to kiss him. But you resist, instead mirroring his own actions and placing a hand on his cheek. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Let me fix this. “

“You can’t, Klaus, you know that.”

“Well then, come home at least. Please, Y/N.”

It’s the desperation in his voice that plays on your heartstrings, his ability to go from a being full of angry flame into a gentle, loving creature. “Klaus- ”

“I’ll come with you to hand the papers in. We’ll go right now. Just please, don’t take my daughter from me.”

You agree, and together you and Klaus walk to the lawyer’s office. It’s heart wrenching to hand in those papers, but it’s something that needs to be done.

Even if part of you can’t help but feel it will be pointless in the end.

Even if part of you knows that in a few years time, you’ll be falling back into Klaus Mikaelson’s arms, unable to resist.

Even if part of you knows that one day, you’ll be his wife again.

Masterlist

[whosscruffylooking]

Promotion (Aaron Hotchner x Reader)

oh geez...this is my first time ever publishing my writing, especially a reader insert. a little cheat sheet: any time the writing is in bold and is italicized, it’s the readers inner monologue (aka my thought process while writing 🤪)

Warnings: None. Angst? Maybe? And then some fluff at the end.

Words: 1.4k

“Although Freud said happiness is composed of love and work, reality often forces us to choose love or work.” -Letty Cottin Pogrebin

Perhaps it was the speed at which his heel was tapping against the floor of his office, the pale color of his knuckles as his grip tightened around his pen, or the way he anxiously kept running his hands through his hair.

God, I'd love to run my hands through his hair. Now is not the time.

For the past twenty minutes, you've found yourself captivated by your boss's troubled appearance. Aaron Hotchner is notorious for being stoic and virtually unreadable. He once stared down the barrel of George Foyet's gun and boasted that he wasn't afraid of him. But here he was, visibly distraught, and all you want to is run to his aid. That's all you've wanted to do for the past three years that you've been a profiler with the BAU.

In all fairness, Aaron was a very closed-off man. He rarely brought his work home with him and never brought his home life to work. Somehow though, you've managed to break that barrier. Even if only slightly. You'd been there for him in his darkest hours, refusing to let him push you away because you knew that if you'd allowed that, he'd suppress himself to death.

Much to your surprise, he didn't put up much of a fight. Instead, he opened himself and his home up to you. He let himself be vulnerable, and he let you help him explore the dark inner workings of his mind. You did so without trepidation, and slowly, you found yourself falling in love with him. You knew the feelings weren't reciprocated, though. At least, you told yourself that. In some twisted way, you'd reasoned that if you refused to acknowledge that he may feel the same, it would make it easier to deny yourself the ability to love your superior. It's wrong. Unprofessional. It could only end in disaster.

Yet, here you are, timidly knocking on the door to his office. Your heart is beating out of your chest, your hands clammy, your teeth drawing blood from your bottom lip.

"Come in," his husky voice mumbles.

Opening the door, you make your way to the chair across from him at his desk. You cross your legs and anxiously pick at the skin around your nails. He looks up from his paperwork, his bloodshot eyes meeting yours, "Can I help you?"

You swallow the lump in your throat, "I can tell somethings wrong, Hotch. You finished your reports an hour ago, and for the past twenty minutes, you've been staring at the same piece of paper, agonizing over it. I haven't seen you like this since-"

Since the divorce papers.

You shake your head, choosing to gloss over that thought, "Is everything okay?"

Silence pierces the air. A pit forms in your stomach. A glossy haze clouds Aaron's eyes, and a small gasp escapes your lips as you notice it.

"Aaron? Aaron, what's the matter? What's on the paper?"

"It's my letter of recommendation for you. You've been chosen as a candidate for the Counterintelligence Division."

You freeze and stare at him with wide eyes. Unable to gather your thoughts or formulate the right words, or any comments for that matter, you sit in silence with him.

Wait. His eyes were watering. Why would he be tearing up?

He's the Unit Chief; his job is to lead his team and hopefully mentor them into a position where they can advance when fit. In fact, he told you after your first year with the unit that he could see you achieving the goal of progressing to Counterintelligence and eventually to FITF.

Is he not happy for me? Proud of me? Of course, he is. He's always wanted me to succeed. This couldn't possibly be because...oh. Me too, Aaron. Me too.

You take a deep breath. Someone has to break the silence...again.

"When would I find out whether or not I got the promotion?"

"First, you would go through a series of interviews and tests before solidifying your position. My recommendation is merely to give my stamp of approval for your transfer."

You let out a stumbled scoff, "Right. You are just giving me your permission to leave. And that's what you want? For me to leave?"

He furrows his brow, "That's not what I meant. You know that."

"Do I, Aaron?"

The honorable and upright team leader reluctantly turns the piece of paper around, pointing out the empty signature line.

"This is what I've been agonizing over. I'm torn y/n because, on the one hand, all I want is for you to live your life with no regrets. To achieve all that you've worked so hard for. And on the other hand, all I want is for you to stay here with me..." he stutters, "With us. The team."

Did SSA Aaron Hotchner just say he wants me to stay with him?

A pink hue paints his cheeks, and you feel yours heat up to match his. You're in disbelief. In one night, it's as if all of the things you've ever wanted have come to fruition, and yet you realize that you can't successfully have them all. Being in Counterintelligence would take you away from your home, your family, the man you're in love with. But if you stay with the BAU, you can only imagine the repression of dating your supervisor; Strauss would not make your life and job easy. You need to make a choice.

Tears sting your eyes, and you can feel your heart yearn for the man sitting across from you.

"Aaron, can I do something wholly unprofessional and beyond all sound reason?"

Aaron narrows his eyes, trying to read exactly what your motives are; his posture straightens as he recognizes your shared longing. He quickly nods and stands up. You mirror his actions and meet him halfway.

Whoa. He's tall. Very tall. And his face is very close to mine.

With bated breath, you gaze into each other's eyes as if asking for permission one last time. It's now or never. As if in complete synchronization, you both lean into one another, claiming each other's lips. He gasps softly, earning a slight chuckle from you. Your entire body tingles, and his hands find their way around your waist, squeezing your hips softy.

He's good at this. Too good. I'm not complaining though.

It's as if his lips are a paintbrush and yours are his canvas. You should pull away, but you're being held captive by his touch. It's as if you both have been starved for year's and your hunger is finally being satisfied. Nothing could taint this moment.

Except...lungs. Stupid, lungs gasping for air.

Forced to separate yourself from him, you touch your forehead to his, determined not to break all contact.

His smile glistens as a small laugh escapes his lips, "You have terrible timing. I had finally convinced myself to sign the document."

You adamantly shake your head, "No. No, I don't want you to sign it. I want to stay. Stay here with the team. I want to stay here with you."

He clears his throat, his voice hoarse, "This job opportunity is too good to pass up y/n."

"No, Aaron Hotchner, you are too good to pass up," you say, pressing your palms to his chest and peering into his beautiful chestnut eyes.

"Well then," he pushes a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, "Looks like I get to boss you around for a little while longer." A devilish smirk spreads across his face.

"Not too fast. I do have an idea of something else you could sign for me."

"And what's that?"

"A check for a raise?"

A hearty laugh echoes from his chest through his office, "I'm gonna kiss you again instead."

"Oh yeah?" You smile, lacing your fingers around his neck.

"Oh yeah." He encloses his lips on yours once more.

It's in that moment when his scent is filling your lungs, his touch imprinting on your skin, and his lips leaving you addicted and craving more that you realize you made the right choice.

No job or promotion could ever give you the feeling you have right now in Aaron's arms. You have never felt more alive than you do exploring your love for Aaron. The best promotion is going from being on the outside of his life to being the one that fills his heart.

[the-modernmary]

my best habit || aaron hotchner x reader (prologue)

Summary: When Aaron Hotchner ended your affair with him, saying that a serial killer was going after him and his family, you were content with the idea that you'd probably never see him again. Two years have come and gone since then, but when you get dragged into an FBI investigation as a key witness, you and Hotch are forced to come face to face with all the things left unsaid.

Warnings: Age gap (15-ish years), smut, degradation, unprotected sex. This story is 18+ older. This is not a story for minors.

A/N: Hello, hello!! I figured that since I've made a writing tumblr, I should post my story on here!! This is a multichapter story, so I am very excited to go on this journey with y'all!! I already have multiple chapters written and published, so these should be coming out VERY quickly. If you don't want to wait to catch up, you can read everything I have on ao3! This chapter starts as a flashback, and then the next chapter and the rest from here on out will be actual plot!

masterlist || read on ao3

“If you were waitin’ on the sunshine, blue sky

Cheap high, lullaby

Then my best habit’s letting you down”

- The Maine, “My Best Habit”

Two years earlier

Your eyes scanned the University Ballroom, your champagne glass practically ignored in your hand. You hated all these alumni networking galas and avoided going to them as much as possible. Old, sleazy lawyers with much younger women on their arm reliving their best cases with each other and expecting all the new law students to laugh when they were able to get their defendant acquitted because of some dumb technicality. It made you sick.

It didn’t help that you were already going in with a bad attitude. Your ex-boyfriend had dropped by your apartment that morning to pick up the rest of his stuff, and he decided that the best person to help him with that was the girl he had been cheating on you with. You caught them together three weeks ago, and you had been so stressed from midterms that you hadn’t even had the chance to go out, get drunk, and have wildly irresponsible rebound sex.

But you had to suck it up for the night, at least until you were able to get the answer you came for. After that, you could go back to your apartment, replace your too tight and too short dress with some nice pajamas, and watch trashy reality TV until you passed out on your couch.

You scanned the room a few more times until you caught sight of a tall man in a dark suit leaning against the bar. Bingo. You set your champagne flute down and ran over to him as fast as your heels could take you. Once you were just a few steps away, you quickly composed yourself and walked straight into his line of sight.

SSA Aaron Hotchner rarely came to alumni events here at George Washington Law School, citing that he wasn’t even a prosecutor anymore and had much more important work to do back at the BAU, but he was going as favor to his old law school buddy. Plus, it was either coming to this or going out to the bar with the team, and seeing as he had just signed the divorce papers with Haley, he wanted to be somewhere he wasn’t going to be profiled all night. The free champagne was also a bonus.

When you saw that his name was on the RSVP list, you knew that you had to go.

“Agent Hotchner?” you asked, giving him your best straight A student smile.

He refused to look up right away, not giving you the chance to charm him. “I’m not currently on duty. If there is a case you would like the BAU to look over, that’s handled by our media liaison,” he said absently, taking another sip of champagne.

You frowned but kept your hand out for him to shake. “That’s not what I’m here for, I-” You took a breath to compose yourself. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I’m a first year here- getting a joint JD and masters in forensic psychology. My goal is to become a prosecutor,” you pressed, and you were rewarded when he perked up in interest. He slid his drink on the table.

“Most law firms don’t usually want a prosecutor who’s going to empathize with the person you’re prosecuting,” he mused, and shook your hand, his grip just tight enough to pass as faux politeness.

You shook your head and clasped your hands behind your back, trying to ignore how warm his hands were. “I think the best prosecutors empathize with the defendants,” you admitted. “Isn’t that how you succeeded as both a prosecutor and as a federal agent? That’s actually why I came to you, I wanted to ask you a question... about my thesis,” you added quickly, figuring that the best way to get him to talk to you.

Aaron’s posture changed from half asleep to maybe listening, and your face went red. Sure, you only came to the event to talk to him, but you never thought that you’d actually get Aaron Hotchner to pay attention to you. “I didn’t empathize with the people I was putting in jail,” he told you, his voice ice cold. “That didn’t come until I worked in the BAU, and even now, I wouldn’t call it empathy. Just understanding of how they became the type of person they are.” He leaned sideways on the bar counter and you felt yourself shrink under his gaze. You shifted slightly and felt the hem of your dress move up your thighs ever so slightly. Aaron noticed too, if the lick of his lips was anything to go by.

You took his silence as your signal to ask your question. “You offered Jessica Michaelson a lesser sentence that had her released in just three years despite the fact that she murdered her brother in cold blood in his sleep. You had the evidence, why didn’t you push for premeditation?” you asked, and his eyebrow quirked upwards. “In the case The People vs. Michaelson,” you added unnecessarily, trying to break the silence.

“I know the case you’re referring to. I was the lead on it,” he reminded you, his voice edging on dangerous. “You know, most people aren’t interested in my days as a lawyer.”

You shrugged, hoping to appear more confident than you felt. “I’m not most people,” you agreed, biting down on your lower lip. His gaze was so intense, and it was affecting you in ways you couldn’t have imagined. It was turning you on, you realized with a start. It had been a while since you had last had sex, and it was driving you only slightly crazy. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Aaron grabbed a champagne flute from a server walking by, and shoved it in your direction. You grabbed it cautiously. “Did you read the police report on the case?” he asked, and you nodded wordlessly, taking a sip of the champagne. The alcohol was making you bolder, and you stepped towards him. “Then you’ll know that there was very little physical evidence tying her to the muder. We chose to offer the charge that would have stuck instead of risking her being found not guilty.”

You gritted your teeth together in an effort to calm yourself down. “She murdered four people within the six months after she was released from prison,” you reminded him.

That seemed to have struck a chord with Aaron, and his steely persona seemed to fade ever so slightly. He sighed exasperatedly; you were obviously getting on his nerves. “The prints and DNA that were collected and put into VICAP when she was in prison are what got her caught in the end, and that was the evidence needed to lock her away for life. We wouldn’t have gotten those prints without her original charge. It all worked out.”

You groaned and threw your hands in the air. “You couldn’t have predicted that, though,” you argued. “And people have been found guilty with way less evidence than you had in the original case. I think you just felt bad for her, considering her brother was a real piece of shit.” You were being difficult now, you knew that. But there was something about Aaron Hotcher that was pulling you in, and you wanted to see how far you could push him.

Aaron gave you a predatory grin and he stepped towards you ever so slightly, finishing his drink. He must have had multiple drinks too, judging by the soft flush on his face. “Oh, you do?” He seemed amused now. He slowly raked his eyes from your face, down your neck, and down the rest of your body, and you forgot how to breath. You knew that it was inappropriate and that he was a highly respected FBI agent, even if he was kind of an asshole at the moment. You also knew that the two of you were crossing lines that neither of you should have even been close to, but you shivered under the weight of his gaze all the same.

You shifted back and forth, your brain trying to process what was happening. “Yeah, I do. And I know that you transferred to the FBI after Michaelson was arrested again, which makes me think that this case was your breaking point,” you ranted, your hands becoming more and more animated.

Aaron chuckled, but there was very little amusement behind it. “Are you sure you want to be a lawyer?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. “Because you’re starting to talk like a profiler.”

You arched an eyebrow at him. “No thanks,” you said firmly, and he just shrugged before making a move to walk past you. You sidestepped in front of him, effectively blocking him from going anywhere. But it was obvious that he was done talking about this.

In your mind, you had two options now. You could keep pushing him about a case that he obviously didn’t want to talk to you about, or you could switch gears in your brain and have him help you solve your... other problem. Aaron was attractive, and you were getting tired of guys your age. You noticed the distinct lack of a wedding ring on his finger, but there was still a tan to show that it had been there. So either he was recently separated or just trying to cheat on his wife. You wanted to not care whichever it was, but a pang in your heart told you to be considerate. Besides, you did not want to get involved with another cheater.

“Must be hard to be at these events without your wife here to scare off all the lonely female law students,” you mused cautiously. You didn’t want to come on too strong, but the alcohol in your system was slowly clouding your ability to be subtle.

Aaron cleared his throat, obviously taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “I’m not married,” he said, too quickly and too defensively. So he’s separated, you thought, and you stepped closer to him.

His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to figure out your endgame. “Well, I would love to discuss your work as a prosecutor more when there are less… distractions around,” you whispered, your words breathy. “Tell me Agent Hotchner, do I make you nervous?” You sounded a lot more confident than you felt.

Aaron just smirked and grabbed your free hand, covering it in both of his, and the action was surprisingly soft, even if it was way too late for him to try acting suave. His eyes, on the other hand, told a whole other story. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes were practically black. “I face the worst people in society on a daily basis. Desperate law students don’t make me nervous. In fact…” He stepped towards you, looking around to make sure nobody else was looking. Aaron leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear with every word. “I think that I make you nervous. And more than nervous, I make you very excited.”

Your breath hitched as he pulled back, a smug smile gracing his lips. You yanked your hand back to preserve what little dignity you had left, but it was too late. “Now, if you would like to discuss my prosecuting career more in depth, then you can set up a formal meeting with me at the BAU,” he continued, obviously proud of himself and the effect he was having on you. He pulled out a business card and upon further instruction, you realized that it wasn’t even his. Jennifer Jareu the name read. “Our media liaison will be able to help you organize that. Now if you don’t mind, I am going to retire for the night.”

Aaron finished the rest of his drink and brushed past you while you were still trying to get your thoughts under control. “Oh, and you’ll make a wonderful lawyer someday, I’m sure of it,” he called over his shoulder, and that snapped you back into action.

You followed, running around him and cutting him off. “And if I don’t want to discuss your prosecuting career?” you asked, batting your eyelashes at him. “What if I was interested in a… less formal meeting?”

That was all the permission he needed. Aaron grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the ballroom, the two of you moving so fast that nobody in the room even had a chance to put two and two together. There was an empty hallway just next to the entrance of the room and Aaron pulled you in that direction, pressing you against the wall and kissing you fiercely the second the two of you were alone.

There was nothing gentle about the kiss, but in a strange role reversal, he let you take the lead. It’s certainly not what you expected from Aaron Hotchner who, until now, had been controlling every aspect of your meeting. You realized then that this was his way of making sure you were okay with what was happening- giving you a chance to back out and change your mind. You just answered by tangling your hands in his hair, pulling so that he was at just the right angle to kiss you.

Aaron dug his fingers into your hips, hard enough to make you gasp out. You were definitely going to have bruises the next day, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. He shoved his leg in between yours and tugged on your lip with his teeth, which made you whimper involuntarily. He smirked against your lips, obviously proud of the noises he was drawing from you. You pulled on his hair harder as a sign of irritation, but that seemed to only make him more amused as he pulled away to laugh into your neck.

“Are we just going to make out against a wall like we’re back in high school, or are you going to actually do something worth my time?” you breathe, fighting to keep your voice even and light. It only halfway worked as he dragged his tongue up your neck to your pulse point. And then he bit down, hard.

It took everything in your power to stay quiet, especially as he softly kissed the newly forming bruise. His attack on your neck was relentless as he pulled your hips and back forth against his thigh. You whimpered as you desperately tried to get any friction from the simple movement. Your skirt was now dangerously close to being pushed so far up your legs that you would be completely exposed.

You pulled away first- you had to or your legs were going to completely give out from under you. You desperately tried to get your breathing under control and, to your annoyance, he looked perfectly composed. The only thing giving him away was his slightly swollen lips.

His fingers trailed up your thigh, getting so close to where you want him. “What would you like me to do then?” he asked easily, his voice almost sounding bored. You were speechless, like your brain had just short circuited. There were a lot of things you wanted him to do, but the words were lost on the tip of your tongue. “If you want something, you have to ask for it.” That was a demand, and he punctuated it by pressing his thigh further into you. You were sure he was going to have a wet spot on his slacks. He took the hand not in between your legs and grabbed your jaw forcefully, his thumb resting on your bottom lip. “Use your words, little girl.”

You realize that the two of you were standing on the edge of a cliff, and you had the power to decide whether or not to jump over. It gave you a strange sense of power. Logically, you knew it was a bad idea. He was too old for you, obviously going through some sort of relationship trauma, and wasn’t somebody you could talk to your friends and family about. But the less rational side wanted him so badly it hurt. You wanted him more than you’ve wanted anything or anyone in a long time.

You noticed your strawberry colored lipstick was smudged ever so slightly on the corner of his mouth, and that’s all it took for you to jump off the side of the cliff. “I want you to drag me into the empty classroom just down the hall and fuck me senseless. I want you to use me,” you moan before taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking.

The look on his face is something you’ll never forget. There was a mix of shock and arousal, but also something primitive; His eyes darkened when you told him to use you, and there was a fluttering in your stomach. You couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or dread. Maybe even both.

He removed his hands from your mouth and legs, only to place his hand on the small of your back. He began walking towards the classroom you had pointed out, much too slow for your liking, but he knew exactly what he was doing. “You’re going to regret asking me to use you,” he practically growls in your ear, each word increasing your arousal. “Are you one of those lonely female law students you warned me about? So desperate and needy for a real man to bend you over a table and fuck you until you can’t walk straight? Ready and willing to whore yourself out for the first man who gives you a second glance?”

Your breath hitched as you stuttered out your answer. “Y-yes, Agent Hotchner,” you whispered as he opened the classroom door and guided you in.

As soon as the door was shut and locked, he was back on your lips again, lifting you so that you were sitting on one of the desks with your legs wrapped around his waist. “Call me Aaron,” he mumbled in between kisses, and you were all too happy to oblige.

You were a moaning mess at this point as his hands pushed your dress up to your waist. His hands and lips were somehow everywhere at once and you were so hot and all you could think about was getting your damn dress off, but Aaron seemed to have other plans.

He ran his fingers up your lace covered slit and he just chuckled into your lips. “You’re so wet for me, already,” he groaned and you let out an embarrassingly loud moan. “And I’ve barely touched you. Do my words really have that much effect on you? Do you like it when I call you a whore?”

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and quickly pulled them down. You could feel his bulge pressing against you and all you could think about was how badly you wanted it. How badly you wanted him. Your hands moved down his chest to make quick work of his belt, and his pants followed after.

“Please, please Aaron,” you begged, desperately trying to create some friction against him. His fingers tangled in your hair and he pulled your head back so that you were looking at him.

“You’re so pretty when you beg.” His fingers slowly ran up your slit, not enough to give you any pleasure. He was teasing you and enjoying every second of it. “And I wish I could take my time with you. The things I want to do to you…” Two of his fingers entered you and you cried out loudly. “But somebody could walk in on us at any second. I’m sure they can all hear you moaning like a dirty whore, all for me. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? So desperate for my attention and approval.”

His words turned you on more than you would have liked to admit. “Yes, Aaron yes. Please-” you were cut off by Aaron curling his fingers, hitting that spot that made you want to scream out in pleasure. But all too soon, they were gone.

He inspected his fingers, which were now covered in your juices, before bringing them to your mouth. “Suck,” he ordered, and you eagerly complied, wrapping your lips around his fingers and moaning at the taste of yourself. “I’ll just have to fuck you quickly here, and then you’ll be begging for more next time,” he groaned and finally- finally- entered you.

He didn’t give you time to adjust to him, thrusting roughly into you. He removed his fingers from your mouth and brought his hand to your neck. He didn’t put any pressure, but he wanted you to know that he could and would if you decided to get mouthy with him.

Your hands gripped the edge of the desk you were sitting on, your knuckles turning white. Your eyes started to close in pleasure as his hips slammed into yours, but they shot open as he tightened his grip on your throat. “Look at me. I want to see you when you cum,” he ordered, and you nodded the best you could.

“Yes sir!” you cried out, unsure of what else to say.

Seemingly satisfied with your answer, Aaron released your throat and moved his hand down so that he was stimulating your clit. You could feel the coil in your stomach tighten as your legs started to twitch. Aaron took this as motivation to slam into you even harder, relishing each time you gasped out his name.

His pace was unforgiving, leaving you gasping for air. Keeping your eyes open was a challenge, but you were able to do it with his soft mutters of praise. “Even brats like you can be good girls,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. “You just need somebody to fuck it into you.”

You were unable to respond coherently, so you just settled on begging even more, although you weren’t sure what you were begging for exactly. Aaron seemed to know, and he sped up his fingers against your clit. You wanted to scream out for him, but your voice wasn’t working. “What did I say before?” he asks roughly. “If you want something, ask for it.”

“Please… please can I cum?” you cried out, feeling yourself getting close to the edge. “Please let me cum around your cock!”

He nodded in approval and you had to muffle yourself in his neck to keep quiet. He fucked you through your orgasm, the overstimulation almost too much, but it wasn’t long before he was moaning your name, and you felt him fill you.

The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, both breathing heavily as the situation started to sink in. You just let a guy almost 15 years older than you that you just met fuck you in an empty classroom, and you really enjoyed it. Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he was going through a full crisis.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the feeling. He pulled up his pants quickly. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, looking around the empty classroom. “I don’t have anything good to clean you up with.” A box of kleenex caught his eye and he grabbed a few tissues. It was better than nothing.

You chuckled nervously and waved it off. “It’s fine,” you promised, your voice coming out shakier than you expected, but he ignored you. He wiped the mess dripping down your thighs. You were cold. He must have noticed, because he took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asked softly, and it was a full 180 from the way he had just been talking to you.

“I’m great,” you admitted honestly. “Seriously, that was… great.”

Aaron smiled at you- the first real smile he had given you all night. “It wasn’t too much?” he confirmed, and you suddenly remembered what he had said to you earlier. ...then you’ll be begging for more next time. Was he planning on a next time? You wouldn’t have minded it.

You shook your head and slowly slid off the table. You took one of the tissues and wiped up the mess that was left on the table. “Not at all. In fact, I could take more. Next time.” Your voice was light and airy. Aaron watched as you picked your underwear off the floor. There was no way you were putting those back on, not when you had no idea when the floor was last cleaned.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he teased, eyeing you carefully.

“Well I can’t keep it if I only have your media liaison’s number,” you reminded him, your eyebrow raised. Aaron chuckled and pulled out another business card, except this time it was his. You plucked the card out of his hands and inspected it carefully. “I’ll call you sometime. You can do all those other things we didn’t have time to do.” You were on your tiptoes now, whispering in his ear. “You know… my mouth can do a lot more than just ask for things.” As you spoke, you slipped your panties into his back pocket. You just laughed as you heard a soft gasp escape his lips.

You made your way towards the door, your legs wobbling dangerously underneath you. You were sure that you looked like a mess, but you didn’t care. All that mattered to you was Aaron Hotchner’s eyes glued to your ass. “Get home safe,” he told you and you let yourself smile. Maybe it was a bad idea to start sleeping with a recent divorcee, but the sex was great and you both knew where you stood with the other person. No feelings, just fucking out your frustrations and stress.

Oh yeah, coming to this event was definitely a good call on your part.

[justcourttee]

DAMINETTE BETROTHED AU DAMINETTE BETROTHED AU DAMINETTE BETROTHED AU there are not enough of these.

I tried to make it a little different than the ones I’ve read, so I hope it was what you were thinking about! 

A Marriage Contract 

“Being Guardian has been a shitshow on its own but now you’re telling me there are strings attached?”

Marinette crossed her arms in annoyance as she eyed the pair that sat across from her. She couldn’t be bothered to learn their names, after all, it took the council a year to learn her own. They seriously couldn’t expect to get by with barely knowing her and throw her into the arms of two strangers.

“Ahem, well, I suppose you could call them strings. I prefer to call it insurance.” The woman’s smile seethed venom. Marinette leaned forward, her eyes throwing daggers at the boy that sat beside the woman. It wasn’t that he was ugly, no, he was probably the most attractive guy she had ever met. It was the principle and a little bit of pride at this point.

“What is it, woman? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what exactly?”

There was a tense moment of silence as the two remained locked in a staring contest, both refusing to blink first.

“Oh come now child, this is beneath you.” Marinette couldn’t hold back her chuckle as she watched the woman’s resending hand. The boy’s daggers shifted to the woman as he gently rubbed the back of his head. “Besides, we haven’t sealed the deal yet. Miss Dupain-Cheng, I need you to solidify this contract.”

The piece of paper had sat so peacefully in the middle of the table, she almost hadn’t noticed it until the woman had shoved it in her direction. Her eyes lazily glanced over the terms and conditions. God, she sounded so replaceable. She could feel their stares as she lifted the paper closer to her face.

“It says in Section 4b that if we want to get a divorce both parties will have to participate in a death match for the reigning glory. Is that written correctly?”

“Of course, how else would it be decided who gets to reign both organizations?”

“Oh, yes, obviously.” Marinette bit her tongue from letting the next few words escape her lips. The guardians honestly expected her to sign her life away to these two strangers to ensure their safety. What a hoax. If it weren’t for her kwamiis, Marinette would have never agreed to attend the negotiations. “Now, what if he decides that he wants to attack the Order even though we marry?”

“Then we shall eliminate him ourselves, after all, we are a League built on the word of our ruler. If my son decides to ignore this binding contract, he is well aware of the punishment.”

Marinette allowed herself a glance at the boy. He hadn’t said much during the negotiations, perhaps he was just the same as her. A pawn for their leaders to use in this game. Setting down the paper, she gently reached over for the knife they had provided. Placing the blade on her palm, her eyes locked on the boy’s.

“Tell me,” instantly his eyes glanced to the woman, “No, keep your eyes on mine.”

The woman exhaled loudly as she waved his attention back to Marinette’s.

“What’s your name?”

“Damian Al Ghul Wayne.” Wayne. That sounded familiar. Wasn’t he a multimillionaire in the U.S.? Did he know his son was here signing his life away? Probably, after seeing the shit Adrien’s dad put him through, Marinette had no trust in the rich.

“Well Damian Al Ghul Wayne, do you think it is in our best interests to sign this contract?”

He looked hesitant, as if he wanted to say something, but he was unsure how to formulate the right words. It was taking every ounce of his willpower not to look at the woman beside him. His supposed mother bartering his life as if it was replaceable. Marinette had decided that she hated the woman from the moment they shook hands, but the longer these negotiations went on, the more reasons began to formulate backing her hatred.

“I think-I think that if you value your life and everyone in it as I do mine, we should sign it.”

The woman stiffened in her seat as if he had released her Ace. Marinette couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped. The boy looked mortified as her chuckle became more hysterical.

“God, you’re threatening his friends and family? You really are a piece of shit woman.”

Before either one could respond, Marinette drew the knife quickly across her palm. It stung, but she couldn’t be bothered to care. Picking up the small feather, Marinette dipped it in the pooling blood before gently placing the tip to the paper in front of her. Setting the feather down, she reached for the towel one of the Guardian’s had provided.

“Well,” the woman cleared her throat as she slid the paper to Damian. “As he signs this paper, the negotiations officially draw to an end. You will be married as soon as we finish preparations. Feel free to invite any friends or family as you please Miss Dupain-Cheng, after all, you only get married once.”

If Marinette had any strength to stand, she would’ve used it to deck the woman. Just once would have been so satisfying. The boy shot her a look that fell somewhere between pity and concern, but Marinette didn’t care. It was obvious to her that he had more at stake here and she was determined to change that for him.

As the woman stood to leave, her smirk floating behind her, Marinette reached out, grabbing the boy’s hand from across the table.

“What is the meaning of this?” The way her eyebrow rose in amusement told Marinette all she needed to know. With as much effort as she could, Marinette leaned against the table for support, shooting the woman the most menacing glare that she could muster.

“Until you set the wedding date, Damian will be staying with me under the protection of the Order of the Guardians. As will any of his friends and family that he pleases,”

“Oh? And what makes you think you have this kind of power child?”

Marinette felt the smirk pulling at her lips as she nodded to the paper that Thalia held in her hands.

“The fact that you and your son agreed to the terms and conditions gives me all the authority I need. As you can see, there is some fine print.”

“How did you-?” Marinette sent her a wink as Tikki flew out from her jacket, a small pencil clutched in their hand. The shock that monopolized the woman’s face was almost as satisfying as the idea of punching her.

“As stated in the recently added Section 6e, the boy and all of his people will be under the protection of one Marinette Dupain-Cheng and her kwamiis. So, if you’ll excuse us, Damian has a few phone calls he needs to make.”

Without looking back, Marinette dragged Damian from around the table and out of the room. The chills that ran up and down her back were no doubt the woman’s steely glare as they escaped the negotiations.

“Woman, I am not some damsel in need of your saving.”

“Can’t you think of a better pet name than woman my fiancée?”

As soon as their feet hit the fresh pavement outside, Damian roughly pulled his hand from hers, his stare filled with both contempt and awe as if she were some enemy he couldn’t wait to surpass.

“Just who are you?”

The smirk on her face felt like a permanent feature as she mock curtsied to the frowning boy in front of her.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, your betrothed.”

Without waiting for a response, Marinette slid the glasses from their position on top of her head to the bridge of her nose. Reaching back, she grasped Damian’s hand tightly, ignoring his tugging.

“Kaalki, full gallop!”

The struggling intensified as Marinette became sheathed in a column of light, only stopping when the transformation completed.

“What the fu-”

“Kaalki, a portal to Wayne Manor, please. I have business with this man’s father.”

Marinette ignored his protests as the air split in front of them, a gloomy sky shimmering on the other side. Stepping one foot through, Marinette put on her best determined look. After all, someone had a lot of explaining to do and Wayne was going to answer everything, even if she had to beat it out of him herself.

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